The Knave of No Heart
by BouncingDragon
Summary: Ilosovic Stayne was not always the vanguard of vice and villainy that Underland came to know him as.  He was a regular soldier too, once - he had honor, he had duty, and secretly, he had a heart.  Pre-movie, Stayne x OC.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Yea yea, long first chapter is loooonnnnggg. (Would you believe I even cut out about a forth of it? pffft)

Some quick notes: takes place pre-movie by about a good 13 years. (At one point I imply that Alice has only just visited for the first time - see if you can catch the reference?) Stayne still has both of his eyes, for a reason. Other characters that will show up occasionally/eventually are Chessur, Mirana, and Iracebeth. (Sorry Hatter fans!)

The OC Anathacia DeVyne is very (VERY) loosely based on the Duchess character from the Alice in Wonderland book, so in a sense she's not even completely mine. xD (By the by, feel free to instigate a Mary-Sue patrol on her, will you?)

In other news, this is my very first (published) fanfic. so any R&R is greatly appreciated. I'm kind of new to the site as well (long time reader, first time publisher) so don't pwn up the n00b too badly. xD

That's all I can think of atm.

Enjoy~

* * *

The thrumming chime of the clock in the corner resounded through the overwhelming gaiety of the ballroom, heralding a closure to the evening that Anathacia thought would never come.

Not that the Underland Wabe celebration hadn't been enjoyable, she reflected as she helped herself to another tart—after all, it wasn't often the sun and the moon crossed paths. But really, a few moments of shadow were hardly worth a week of festivals and traveling and balls and frills and courts and tournaments and—whatever else came with such a holiday. After a while, it tended to take a toll more doleful on the mind than the clock tower above the ramparts.

The Duchess of Deymuun readjusted her domino mask, which stuck with sweat to the half of her face it concealed. She sighed and glanced at the golden clock face shimmering next to the throne; only another half hour more and she would be free to return home again.

Anathacia dodged a group of dazed courtiers who swung past her with a tipsy warble; as they did, a cloud of sickly sweet perfume smothered her breath. She gagged and coughed, suddenly aware of just how stuffy the whole masquerade had become. Absently, she leaned into the wall and drew back the gossamer drapes that veiled the oblong windows of the ballroom, searching the velvety black sky beyond for even the faintest of stars—but the lights from the dance floor behind her and the courtyards below drowned out any of the sweet subtlety of the fresh Underland night.

"I do believe I need some air." She felt herself mutter—though she hardly even heard her own words, because at that point the musicians struck up a loud, lively waltz. There was an explosion of girlish squeals as half of the kingdom present fluttered madly about to claim a dance partner. The Duchess unfolded herself from the crevice of her refuge and struck out quickly along the edge of the ballroom.

She was tall—some said unnaturally so. But her Father had always insisted that the long-time descendants of Deymuun still retained the ancient giant blood that came with the mountain territory—and she was rather fond of the idea herself. She was pale, though the olive tinge of calluses and earnest work still threatened resurrection beneath the pallid complexion of a proper courtier. Her snowy blonde hair, finally tamed after hours of preparation, had been piled up onto her head beneath an elegant array of jewels and flowered combs.

They had told her she looked like the royalty she was—but she felt more like a pin cushion, stuffed into a corset and given a skirt.

She gave a stiff curtsy as the funny little doormen flung open the main entrance at her approach— the evening breeze flew into her face to greet her like a lonely nightingale. But before she had crossed the threshold, a new disturbance rent the air in the form of an unintelligible, angry shriek.

Anathacia paused and turned, knowing full well the perpetrator of this cry merely by the sound.

Her cousin, Lady Iracebeth, was at it again—whatever _it _had the dire misfortune of being this time. Her cousin's face, mysteriously swollen to thrice a normal size and visible from every angle of the room, had turned a brick red beneath her already crimson mask. She was shouting something undistinguishable at the pack of noblemen and women who surrounded her, whose number seemed to be quickly diminishing in a flurry of movement to avoid the princess's wrath. Anathacia gathered the impression that something had spilled on Iracebeth's gown—an elaborate labyrinth of lace and tulle that, had it not been the princess sporting such a statement, would have looked silly.

As a matter of fact, it did look silly; though no one present valued this observation above their head, which would have been the price for admitting such a truth.

Anathacia frowned: it was her duty as a member of the Royal Family—however distant—to rush to her cousin and assist in pacifying the awful temper that had already cost their family decades of embarrassment.

She quite loathed Iracebeth. Completely in secret, of course—she could still afford the proper cordiality when the few and far between instances of interaction reared their ugly, swollen heads. But even at their first meeting, during the days of frocks and ribbons and governesses, Anathacia was struck by the unevenness of Iracebeth's temper and narcissism—she had, at the time, assumed the princess would grow out of it. She had been horribly mistaken.

And now, more than two decades later, Anathacia stood gazing evenly at her cousin, who was working herself into a state of frenzy—with enough volume to rival the orchestra. People were already stopping their dances to stare; but only for a moment, before jumping to resume their step as the princess glared fiercely into the masked faces around her.

Anathacia stood for a moment, deciding between the obligation of the court and the prospect of the sweet night air.

…_Oh, to the momewrathes with it,_ She thought savagely,

_His Lordship will be along shortly. Let him deal with her—it was on his own head he married her anyway._

And with insolence conspicuous only to herself, she sauntered through the colossal doorway and into the cool darkness of the Crims courtyards.

The night was moonless and quieting; the Duchess smiled as she gathered her skirts into both fists and leapt down the tiered stairs of the palace gardens. The world that opened up before her was bathed in an uneven medium of glassy lantern light, rendering all given colors into an oblivion of shadow and soft, creamy illumination.

She hastened to enter the hedge maze, determined to leave behind the overpowering smells and sounds of the upper-class royalty she was born into. It was only as she ducked beneath an arch of white roses—or were they red? Some of them seemed to have been molting a thin layer of paint—that she truly felt the satisfaction of solitude, swathed and set in a star-studded sky.

She advanced aimlessly through the maze for several minutes, unsure and uncaring of her direction. The peace of the night and the smell of the fresh earth seemed to carry her mind back to the portion of homeland she called her own: Deymuun.

_To think, I'll be back home by morning. _

She breathed deeply, savoring the chill that enveloped her with the wings of the timid breeze.

Presently, she found herself in the center of a bridge that forded a dark pond; the shadowy water snaked through the center of the maze beneath her. She paused and leaned against the railing, suddenly spent; her eyes half closed with the sudden onslaught of sleep as she stared into the black reflection of the sky above, rippling eerily in the water below.

"Does my Lady not find the ball to her liking?"

Anathacia jumped upright so quickly that the beams of the bridge creaked.

She would have known that voice anywhere.

"So you did attend, Chessur?" She inquired into the darkness, relaxing again.

"Not technically, my Lady—for, as you will remember, tonight is a special 'Royalty Only' event."

Anathacia extended an arm into the night, smiling a little as a band of smoky grey fur materialized from the shadowy gloom and curled around her wrist. This ring was followed by another, and yet another, until a massive tabby cat, striped in black and grey, had fully appeared, entwining itself along the Duchess's offered arm. Aside from its sheer size, the tabby's most striking feature, aside from his wide, iridescent blue eyes, was his prominent, omnipresent smile, which curled across his whole face into an expression of haunting delight. This smile had the unnerving habit of disappearing more slowly than the rest of the cat's considerable self, which left his audience with nothing more than a twinkling leer in the darkness.

"Since when has that ever stopped you from popping up?" Anathacia said, stroking the cat between his giant, glimmering eyes.

"But no matter—I'm glad you did. I find tonight's company dreadfully tedious. I can't understand how Queen Mirana (May she reign forever) ever puts up with such frivolity day in and day out."

"Ah, but pardon the observation, my Lady," The cat purred,

"We are in the kingdom of Crims. Many of these, how you so delicately put it, 'frivolities' spawn from Princess Iracebeth, and hardly from our good Queen."

"She was in there just now," The Duchess sighed.

"Iracebeth, I mean. She was throwing a tantrum again, just as I was about to step out."

"I can only imagine the scene she caused, my Lady."

"Isn't it a terrible thought, though?" Anathacia's eyes caught in the glistening heavens as they rolled thoughtfully upward.

"If the King—may he rest in peace—had not intervened with specific instructions that the crown go to Lady Mirana at his death, Iracebeth would have inherited the throne?" She shivered—though whether it was from the thought of Iracebeth as Queen, or the chill of the night, she couldn't tell.

"Quite an unpleasant prospect." The cat conceded.

Suddenly, Chessur grew tense; he cocked his head and flicked his ear. His grin seemed to grow even wider in the darkness.

"I do believe we have a visitor, my Lady."

"Whereabouts, my dear puss?"

"Just beyond the hedge that away, Duchess." The cat gestured as his head and tail flicked simultaneously in the intended direction. And with the momentum of his movement, the tabby had rolled from Anathacia's arm and into the air, where he floated jovially between thick tendrils of mist.

"Perhaps I should bid goodnight, Duchess—my considerable intuition tells me this is will be one meeting you would prefer to hold alone."

"Oh? Who is it then?"

"Not a stranger, if that's what you mean." The cat grinned.

Anathacia frowned.

"It isn't."

"Well never mind—I don't care how well it's masked by the roses and whatnot, he'll always smell like horses to me."

Anathacia felt her blood grow cold.

_He…He smells like horses…_

… _Could it be…? _

_But that's not possible…He was reassigned to the Queast Division just last month…_

"Well, good evening, my Lady. I'll seek you out once the night is completely spent."

The cat pressed his muzzle into the Duchess's still outstretched hand with a deep, rumbling purr of pleasure—and then he was gone, just as suddenly as he had come.

Anathacia could still feel the thrum of the great cat's purr reverberate through her fingertips for an instant after he had disappeared. And then she was alone—or perhaps not.

She waited several seconds for the stranger to reveal himself; but the night stood still in trepidation, and the universe remained undisturbed for a whole, silent minute.

Anathacia drew a steadying breath, allowing the cool night air to calm her quickly rising nerves.

"You can come out now, please," She threw crisply over her shoulder.

"I know you're there—I've been informed of it. But I'm afraid I don't quite know who you are yet."

Footsteps—boots, from the sound of it, and then a reply. The voice that responded was grievously familiar; it was as smooth and silky as a spider's web—and equally as misgiving, just as it always had been.

"Really, my Lady—I hadn't expected you to forget me so soon. "

The Duchess kept her composure as she cast a glance over her shoulder: the man who leaned against the arch behind her was tall, even more so than herself. Most of his pale face was still obscured by the shadows strewn about the garden—but she didn't need more than simple starlight to recognize that sharp gleam in his hard, grey eyes.

"Forgive me, Lieutenant Stayne," She turned back to the bridge before her, dipping her head in an acknowledgement of deceptive carelessness.

"But it has been some while."

The guard took this response in considerably long stride and approached the bridge, which swayed and groaned piteously with the combined weight of the two giants. He crept up behind her and stood silently for a few moments—as did Anathacia.

The Duchess held her breath, unsure if her cordial indifference had been too much.

"My Lady appears cold," Stayne said finally, and Anathacia heard the clasp of his cloak release.

"Yes, I suppose." She mumbled, relieved at the chance of conversation.

"I left the ballroom with slight haste you see…I must have left my shawl—"

But she left off her sentence with a sudden, soft cry of surprise: as Stayne had moved to drape his cape across the Duchess's bare shoulders, he had swooped in low and kissed her exposed neck. She exhaled and closed her eyes; his touch grew in intensity as he kissed her again and again, slowly climbing down into the nape of her neck. His scent overpowered her as she fell back into his arms—but it was not the offish odor of horses that Chessur had described; it was more like the musky, untamable smell that came with a horse.

It was the smell of the Wild—and she loved it.

He paused to bury his face in her hair, and she could feel the warmth of his breath in her ear. With her heart still pounding, she opened her eyes and turned herself out of his arms, catching his gloved hand in her own and meeting his gaze.

"What are you doing here, Stayne?" She pleaded.

"They told me you had been reassigned to the Queast Patrol…They said you wouldn't return until the spring."

The guard paused to gauge her expression, hunting for some misgiving of displeasure—but if he found any, he concealed it well.

"I was replaced at the last minute," He began slowly,

"At the Captain's personal request…In order to immediately assume my new duties here in Crims."

"'New duties'? You mean—?"

"I've been promoted to First Officer," He smiled dryly.

"Directly under Captain Blythard."

Anathacia eyes grew bright, and she drew herself up solemnly.

"In that case, I believe congratulations are in order, Ilosovic Stayne—First Officer of the Crims Royal Guard. That has a nice ring to it, by the way."

"Quite right—and I thank you, Lady Anathacia DeVyne, Duchess of Deymuun." As he bowed, he caught her hand up to his lips and planted a cordial kiss over her satin glove.

The laughter in her tone faltered.

"But why didn't you send word? Even a carrier bat would have sufficed—I was resolved not to see you until the New Year."

"Ah, yes, well…Circumstances became…slightly more complicated, in that there were more prohibitions than I had thought." He grew uncharacteristically earnest.

"I had meant to send word, but…I'm afraid, now that I have a seat in Court Politics, I…well…"

"You couldn't risk it." Anathacia finished with a sigh. Her gaze fell from his face and into her palms.

"So, on one hand," She clasped his own gloved hand in both of hers to demonstrate.

"You are quickly gaining favor in the ranks of Crims…But at the price of keeping us even more of a secret than before."

Something she said seemed to touch a nerve; he drew back stiffly and gave her a hard look.

"Are you blaming me for my caution? You of all people should realize the cost of Royalty being discovered with an undecorated soldier. Heads would truly roll for such a scandal…though perhaps in Deymuun and with your status, you could afford it without complete disgrace—"

"Of course I realize—that isn't what I meant!" The Duchess flushed unhappily, caught off guard by the cutting sarcasm of his latter observation.

"That isn't what I meant at all. I understand the risk to your career you're taking—but don't you dare try to undermine the risk I take as well. If Father knew the real reason I pass up every suitor that arrives in Deymuun, he'd probably exile me from the family…or quickly marry me off to some rich, ugly duke from the south district, which ever comes worst—"

"So you've told no one?" He demanded suddenly.

Anathacia paused, clearly stung.

"No." She replied flatly.

"No one in Deymuun is aware…Except Chessur. But he knows everything that goes on around the keep."

A faint snarl of distain curdled the corner of Stayne's mouth.

"That flabby furball from the Cheshire providence? I don't trust him, or his two-faced grin. How do you know when he's going to appear next, and how do you know what he's been up to when he's disappeared?"

"He probably heard you," Anathacia muttered bitterly.

"He's been a loyal servant of the House of DeVyne for centuries, not completely unlike you Staynes and your bondage to Crims. I would trust him with my life in a heartbeat."

Stayne sighed, allowing the topic to drop—but Anathacia locked harshly with his gaze in an effort to convey her offense, still fresh and wounded. Several frosty seconds slunk by, then Stayne allowed his expression to soften; he stepped toward her again, reaching to adjust the cloak he had hung over her shoulders.

"One day I shall be Captain of the Crims Guard," He said quietly.

"When that happens, we won't have to hide. The position will be a high enough rank to please both of our factions."

Anathacia lowered her gaze.

"And then we can be together." She murmured.

They were silent for a moment.

"Aren't you content to wait for it?" Stayne pressed.

"For the time where rules and courts won't inspire fear?"

"Are you?"

Was the only reply.

His hand slipped up her neck and toward her face, stroking her cheek with surprising tenderness.

Anathacia half closed her eyes, pressing closer into his touch.

"You're wearing gloves." She observed, reaching to pluck his hand from her cheek. She tugged the worn leather away to reveal his long, pale fingers.

"You know I don't like them."

"Standard issue, I'm afraid," Stayne said sleekly.

He lifted her chin with his freshly ungloved hand. He carefully began to lean inward, watchful for any sign of objection.

"A requirement when one is on duty…"

But the objection never came; and before Anathacia knew fully what she was doing, she had slid both arms up around his neck, and pressed her lips into his.

Their embrace burned as the seconds slipped by, gaining fervor as a falling stone gains momentum. She buried her face in his starch black hair; the caress of his lips swept across her collarbone, causing a small blaze to course through her nerves.

"We shouldn't," She breathed without conviction.

"But for now, we can." He whispered back, slipping a hand down the curve of her corset as he held her tighter—and for once, she allowed herself to believe him.

He kissed her full on the lips. Then a few seconds of something so intense it seemed to ignite; his kiss—his touch—his passion was everywhere at once. And for the first time, Anathacia found herself wishing the night would never end.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** Chapter Two: In which a potentially steamy moment is ruined, banter is had, and nothing really happens.

Sigh.

To any readers I may have: expect a massive backstory/information dump in chapter 3. The story itself is progressing rather, ah, slower than I had intended. But I'll make it up to you eventually, I promise! Just bear with me for a few more chapters.

Again, R&R is always appreciated, even if I don't know how to respond. (no, really - I'm still a bit new to the site control pannel. ^^;) To those about to embark on the obligatory Sue Patrol - we salute you.

Enjoy, and a great big 'thank you' in advance!

* * *

Sadly, despite either Stayne's or Anathacia's most earnest wishes, time pressed on—and from somewhere far away, the strong toll of a midnight bell shook the night air with an inescapable series of commanding clangs.

As the celebratory cheers of a closing festival resounded from the palace, the soldier and the Duchess broke apart.

"I'll be leaving soon," she admitted, holding his exposed hand up to her lips.

"I am to act as an escort to Her Majesty Queen Mirana—she is to spend what remains of the night in Deymuun, along with her courtiers, before returning home to Marmoreal in the morning."

"I cannot convince you to delay in Crims for one night longer, then?" Stayne asked without much hope, brushing away a rogue strand of hair from Anathacia's eyes.

"If you had sought me out earlier, arrangements may have been different." The Duchess bit her lip in remorse,

"But as it is, I cannot refuse the honor of accompanying Her Majesty's caravan to the Deymuun Keep. Father would feed me to the borogroves for being so discourteous."

"Perhaps you can afford a few more minutes, then." Stayne suggested, drawing close once again.

"Her Majesty will undoubtedly linger a while longer…"

Anathacia smirked.

"Yes…perhaps a few more minutes of delay wouldn't go completely amiss…It is only just midnight, after all…"

Stayne was less than an inch away—his breath came hot and fervent—when the clearing of some unannounced throat sent the couple reeling in surprise.

"Forgive the intrusion, my Lady," Drawled a voice from the darkness.

"But Her Majesty Queen Mirana is seeking you. I do believe she means to depart with all possible haste."

"Chessur!" The Duchess cried. She clutched at her heart, which ached with the shock of an unknown specter. She felt her knees go weak with relief as she realized the perpetrator of the unexpected voice; but she wavered, dizzy with a still vivid astonishment even as she stood. A strong hand caught her by the arm as she threatened to keel over, and she was aware that Stayne stood tall above her, glaring toward the cat that lounged just beyond both of their heads.

"At least have the courtesy to announce yourself next time, you arrogant little tick!" Stayne growled.

The Duchess flashed him a look of warning.

"Ilosovic, don't—"

But Chessur's grin suddenly curdled into a snarl.

"Your lack of prudence is even more offensive than your manners, Ilosovic Stayne." The Cat hissed.

"Flabby furball indeed! This coming from the two-legged giraffe wielding a butter knife! I'll wager your best sport is 'Dodge the Chandelier'…"

"You would to well to watch your own tongue, cat," Stayne replied coldly.

"The Lady Duchess and I share similar statures—to insult my height is to include her as well—"

"Hardly the case, as it suits Lady DeVyne so handsomely," Chessur interrupted.

"However, I cannot say the same of you."

"Enough!" Anathacia cut them off firmly. Stayne rolled his eyes skyward, seeking patience among the stars. To salvage a peace, she turned to the cat and spoke gently.

"Chessur—where is Her Majesty now?"

The Cheshire Cat resumed his smirk—though this time he seemed to retain a faint hint of malignance that was more than a little unsettling.

"Just over that hedge. I daresay they are being drawn here by the sound of our verbose exchange even as I speak."

And with that, the cat melted curtly back into the night. Anathacia gasped, shooting Stayne a look of frozen horror.

"I must go—we can't be discovered—"

Anathacia rushed from the bridge in a rustle of petticoats and footsteps. She had barely time to regain her composure before a small group of unfamiliars rounded the edge of the maze and stopped, staring at Stayne and Anathacia.

"Is that you, Duchess?"

A pack of three or four noblemen, dressed in various, rich arrays of silver and white, had appeared with two guards in the considerable archway—led by Queen Mirana herself. It was the Queen who had addressed her; she fairly floated a good two paces in the front of the rest of the company, sporting a half-faced mask shaped like the crescent moon and inlaid with pearls—though even this wasn't enough to fully disguise her monumental surprise.

"Yes—here I am, you're Majesty,"

Anathacia worked to keep her breathing even as she sank into a low curtsy. The Queen returned the gesture, though a little absently; she was staring around the Duchess's shoulder and directly at Stayne. She seemed to be gauging the situation cautiously—though not cautiously enough to overcome her curiosity.

"And…Who is this?" She inquired with slight apprehension.

Before Anathacia could reply, Stayne hailed from the bridge with a gratifying bow; however, he did not approach.

"Ilosovic Stayne, your Majesty—First Officer of the Crims Guard."

"Oh, yes, I've heard of you," The Queen gave a dainty wave in his direction. She turned back to Anathacia with a rather pointed expression, but gave no comment on the subject. She cleared her throat.

"Thacia dear—I'm afraid we'd best be on our way. With The Wabe Celebration at an official end, and a long journey to Deymuun ahead—"

"So soon, Your Majesty? I mean it's…It's only just past midnight." Anathacia interjected before she could stop herself.

The Queen removed her mask, allowing her shimmering white hair to topple down into her face—before she blew it away sharply, and slightly unbecomingly, with a flustered sigh.

"Yes, well—in this case, the sooner the better. I, uh, don't suppose you were witness to the…the 'Noodle Incident'?"

Her voice dropped into a dark whisper toward the end of the statement; The Duchess shook her head slowly, though with a faint inkling as to what The Queen was referencing.

"Ah, well…Probably for the best." Her Majesty flashed a gracious smile.

"Let's just say that…err, my dear sister isn't having the best of nights…And of course, the whole kingdom knows." The afterthought was thrown onto the end in a bitter mutter that Anathacia doubted anyone else present had heard.

"But no matter, no matter…Now it's off to Deymuun quicker than a rabbit's pocket watch." The Queen gave an airy spin into an about face—but she turned full circle unexpectedly, seemingly struck with another idea.

"Unless of course…You were wanting to delay here in Crims for the night, Thacia?" The suggestion came warily as Her Majesty's gaze traced back to Stayne once again. Anathacia could feel her cheeks grow hot against the breezy night, and she lowered her eyes to the ground.

"If that's the case, we shan't press you to join us," The Queen continued, not unkindly.

"We will be sure to tell your Father—"

"My place is at your side, Your Highness," Anathacia said steadily, aware that Stayne was staring hard into the back of her head.

"And Deymuun is my home. I have no reason myself to delay such a journey, and it will be an honor to accompany you to the Deymuun Keep.

"Well, if you're certain, dear cousin." Mirana replied, with a tone that suggested of knowing full well she wasn't.

Anathacia curtsied again.

"The road awaits, My Queen." She said coolly, managing a smile as she gestured toward the flowering archway. Mirana seemed pleased, and nodded sagely.

"Very well—onward to Deymuun then."

The company of courtiers ducked away swiftly back through the maze, not bothering to mask their eagerness to leave half as well as they had masked their own faces. Anathacia did not turn to Stayne as she left with The Queen—or she hadn't meant to, at any rate. However, as the advance party of the Queen's companions disappeared around the bend to the left, Mirana paused and whirled upon Anathacia. Her eyes suffered a look not completely askance to an apology as she held the Duchess back gently by the part of her shoulder she could reach.

"Thacia dear, you…err, may want to give that back…"

The Queen motioned vaguely down Anathacia's figure—and mortified, Anathacia realized she still sported the Guard's black, crested cloak.

"Oh, and the glove, too…He'll probably be wanting that for inspection tomorrow."

It was all the Duchess could do to nod numbly; she hadn't even realized that she still clutched Stayne's cold leather glove in her sweaty hand. The Queen smiled warmly as she turned away to the bridge and walked back to Stayne, shrugging off the cape with as much dignity as she could afford. The guard seemed equally as petrified, but strove to conceal it beneath an inscrutable expression.

"Thank you, Officer Stayne." She said with as much clarity as she could muster, draping the cloak carefully across Stayne's arm. Stayne bowed and accepted the glove Anathacia pressed into his hand.

"Fairfarren, Duchess DeVyne." He said smoothly—but Anathacia felt him squeeze her hand, and they met each other's gaze in an instant of private, unspoken farewell. His gray eyes still burned with hunger and disappointment; Anathacia too, was aware of the longing that welled from her heart into her own eyes—but she blinked it away quickly, withdrawing from Stayne's desperate grasp as she turned to rejoin Queen Mirana.

Her Majesty was still smiling faintly as she spun airily away into the night, trusting Anathacia to follow at her own substantial pace. Though she didn't want to, The Duchess felt compelled to risk one last glance over her shoulder before Stayne disappeared from view—he still stood, as impervious as ever, alone and silent on the bridge. It would have been painful enough without a final acknowledgment, but Anathacia felt a bitter pang of remorse as she saw him raise his hand and give a small wave; and then she could no longer make out his expression in the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - in which there's a great deal of dialogue, various hidden Lewis Carroll references, and a bit of obligatory fluff by the end.

Again, R&R and Sue Patrol is greatly appreciated!

(though to be honest, this chapter was a bit uninspired...*sigh*)

Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

**Edit: **accidentally double posted the chapter, due to my bleary eyed idiocy and and uploading the wrong document. :P

* * *

Anathacia was hardly aware of following the Queen out of the labyrinth, now veiled in a thin, pearly mist from an evening dew, nor could she remember fully the minutes that must have ticked by as she finally joined Mirana in the seat of an extravagant carriage. They had the whole compartment to themselves, as the courtiers were following closely on various horseback and wagons of their own. She was only pulled out of her fitful contemplations—Stayne's zealous caress still seemed to linger across her bare shoulders—as the carriage beneath gave a great lurch into life, and the Crims Castle began to roll away beneath the clopping of great hooves.

It was only then that she noticed Mirana was staring avidly at her, as well. Anathacia immediately had the grace to look uncomfortable.

"Um…Your Majesty? Is something the matter?"

Queen Mirana appraised her, raising a dark, slender eyebrow in thought.

"I'm merely trying to decide whether or not to impose a few inconvenient inquiries—that's all."

Anathacia suppressed a sigh of resignation, knowing full well just how inconvenient the aforementioned inquires would be.

"Your Grace may ask anything of this loyal subject."

"Don't speak so formally, cousin—it grates on the nerves so!"

"Very well, Your Majesty." Anathacia smiled faintly and quickly rephrased the statement to a lower degree of particulars.

"Ask away, my dear Mirana."

The newness of the informality seemed to shift the whole tension of the situation—or perhaps it was the sudden jostle of the carriage as the uneven path beneath flew by below. Anathacia felt the old spark of their childhood friendship rekindle something; something once evaporated into a distant memory. They were no longer Ruler and Subject, but merely two young cousins who traipsed across the countryside together as children, trading ribbons and secrets as they hid in the hedges. Anathacia was inwardly grateful for this.

Mirana was pensive for a moment; when she spoke, her trepidation was almost overpowering.

"How long have you…? Or, has he…? Um, have the both of you…? Since when…? You…?"

"Since the summer." Anathacia admitted, not bothering to wait until the end of Mirana's question—whenever that would have come.

"Early summer—just after the Grobbish Day."

"How did it…? That is, how did you two…? Where did—?"

"He was commissioned to oversee the advanced combat training for his battalion." Anathacia said.

"Their entire detail was sent to Deymuun for the summer, where my father was to personally handle the training."

"And then you two just…?"

Anathacia shook her head.

"Not quite—it took some time." The Duchess gazed thoughtfully out of the carriage window and fell silent, watching as rippling fields of wildflowers swarmed by in an opaque mist over the ground.

"…I'm very much game for the story, cousin." Mirana prompted.

"We have a long journey ahead yet."

The Duchess looked up.

"Very well, Your Majesty."

Anathacia grinned and drew a hand across the folds of her skirt, smoothing out the fabric as she searched her memory for the details of that day.

"I think it must have started on the day I was giving a lecture on strategy—Father won't let me near the weapons training anymore, you see, but he still allows me to handle some of the less physical aspects of the Grounds."

"Very wise of him." Mirana conceded.

Anathacia shrugged.

"After what happened to mother during the Snark Hunt, I suppose he must have every reason to keep me away from battles…Though it is frustrating having only your brother as a sparing partner, and sometimes your father if he's not too busy…But he usually is…anyway, the lecture.

"It's not often I'm interrupted when I'm teaching—not unheard of, of course, but not common. Sometimes the middle ranking men—the guards of Crims especially, I've noticed—will let their success in the military go to their heads. They assume I have no experience, and they call me out with some shallow remark on my gender, or age, or sometimes my class. Well, that day, one of the officers of Crims began heckling me on my lack of traditional military experience—"

"And did this Stayne of yours tell him off and stand up for you?" Mirana offered, looking well placated with the idea.

Thacia gave a diverse snort of laughter.

"It was Stayne who was the heckler, actually. I don't remember what the remark was—I think it had something to do with my being a woman and not knowing anything of war—but he annoyed me so much, I looked him in the eye and called him to stand at the front of the group. As it happened, I had only just been talking about pinpointing the weaknesses of an opponent before and during combat—I decided, just once, I'd give a practical demonstration."

It was hard for Anathacia to suppress a tone of relish as she recounted the story.

"I humiliated him, I'm afraid—I had him stand at attention facing his detail. I circled him, calling out all the various physical weaknesses that I could observe right away—as it happened, some, err, observations may have been a bit more…cutting, than others. "

The Duchess trusted Queen Mirana to use her imagination, and in turn chose not to elaborate.

"And then we sparred, and I cowed him, using the weaknesses I had only just pointed out. For the next week, our affiliation turned tense…Well, really, we ignored each other more than was necessary…Ugly glares in the causeways, that sort of thing…But then all that was forced to change when Father sent me on that errand to Mamoreal—you remember, don't you Mirana? After our smiths repaired the Vorpel Sword, Father had me deliver it back to you."

"Oh, I do recall that—Stayne was with you then, too, I remember now. I rather thought he looked familiar."

"Yes, though it was completely against both our wills that we be sent together. Father ordered him and two other hand-picked guards to escort me through Tulgy Wood. I remember we both begged for different arrangements…but he was firm, and insisted on only the best for his 'precious daughter'."

Anathacia hadn't intended the last few words to come off so bitterly—she continued hastily.

"Well, as much as I protested against it and promised Father I could look after myself, I'm glad he did send them—because, as you know, we were attacked by the Jubjub bird."

"I remember you told me—by the way, Iracebeth's husband, Lord Jyorge, caught that foul thing recently. Apparently he's on a campaign to rid the countryside of dangerous beasts, including the Bandersnatch… And, eventually, the Jabberwock." The Queen shuddered at the latter name. Anathacia took the mention with equal distain.

"I don't envy the poor soldier sent against that monster—though, in any case, I'm glad they've caged that horrible bird. When it attacked, it took our party by complete surprise. I was thrown from my horse, while one of the guards was carried off into the sky—and the other's mount bolted into the forest with him still on top. Stayne was the only one in our party able to keep steady; he had already dismounted and drawn his sword by the time I had recovered…though when I stood I realized that my ankle had twisted in the stirrup as I had fallen, and that I wouldn't be much help."

"The bird returned and came after me—probably because I seemed the weaker of the two of us that remained. I laid it across the chest with my dagger as it swooped low, but I underestimated its strength; it bulled me over and my knife went flying out of my hand. I was knocked flat to the ground winded, unable to stand again, and without a weapon—with an angry bird coming to finish what it had started."

Anathacia didn't even realize how quiet she had become when she spoke again.

"Everything after that is a bit of a blur. I remember that thing bearing down me, its claw was pressed into my chest—I couldn't breath beneath its weight…the stench was so horrible. I thought I was going to die…I was so certain of it…Then there was a screech, and feathers went everywhere…the thing took off again. One of its wings wasn't working right, though… it just sort of hung limply at its side…but it somehow managed to disappear into the woods. I then realized, from the corner of my eye, that Stayne had attacked it with throwing spades from a distance. He told me later that he had embedded one into the soft part of the under wing, knocking it dangerously off balance and driving it off."

The Duchess was more than a little unwilling to admit what came next even to her cousin.

"I don't remember how it happened, but Stayne was suddenly kneeling next to me…I couldn't think straight, I…I remember burying my face in his shoulder as he tried to help me up…I think I was crying…he sat with me for a few moments, and he let me catch my breath…I was so frightened, but he never said a word…he just let me carry on…"

"Finally, I dried up a bit and he said we should make for Marmoreal with all speed, in case the bird returned. My own mare had bolted, though thankfully she had knocked the Vorpel Sword loose of its case when she did. Stayne had the good sense to hastily tether his own horse when the battle first started, so we still had the Sword and a mount between us. He helped me bind my ankle and lifted me onto the back of his horse. We eventually caught up with the guard who had lost control of his mount, but we never found the one that was carried off…Or my own horse, for that matter."

"We delivered the Sword and returned to Deymuun without further incident—but Stayne and I were on noticeably kinder terms after that. Well, I started going out of my way to show my gratitude, at least—I arranged better quarters, had his armor and weapons repaired or upgraded, etcetera…and it didn't go unnoticed. About two weeks after the whole incident, Stayne caught me alone on the ramparts during the Fire Watch—"

"Sorry, what's that?" Mirana interrupted, clearly bemused.

"What's what? Oh, the Fire Watch? Um, it's rather like a night watch, except one must stand guard all night, from eight in the evening to eight in the morning, without shifts." Anathacia replied.

"Deymuun only initiates the Fire Watch when the Guard regiments are low and we can't afford relief, mainly due to the high demand of units for the Training Grounds below. There just aren't enough soldiers to staff both the Grounds and the Night Watch completely, so Father lets me volunteer on the Fire Watch sometimes. I rather like to do it, and I'll sign up whenever I can manage. The night air clears the head after a long day, you see, and I like to be by myself."

"I remember that was just the case when we were little together, as well." Mirana said, reminiscing.

"Well, some things may never change." Anathacia conceded with a vague smile.

" …Where was I? Oh yes, the Fire Watch. Stayne found me alone on the wall that night… Actually, it was almost two in the morning when he appeared. I thought at first he had come to relieve me, which didn't make any sense for the Fire Watch—and then, out of all things," Anathacia laughed suddenly.

"I realized he was holding a small tea tray."

She remembered her initial surprise as the irony of Stayne's stark, black figure gingerly bearing the china set had first registered. It was still rather funny in the Duchess' mind - and Mirana, who was on the verge of unbecoming giggles as well, seemingly agreed.

"A tea tray?" She confirmed, not without amusement.

"Nothing elaborate," Anathacia reassured The Queen.

"But the tea was strong, and the night was cold. He had come to thank me for arranging the improvements of his armor and quarters. We kept the conversation light and politic at first—but then we were discussing…I don't even remember. Weapons of choice, maybe? Places we had been to or seen, that definitely cropped up a few times…The various members of Court, that is, the ones we liked or disliked, and the ones we thought odd…Hunting experience and strategy was mentioned at least once, maybe more…and before we knew it, the four o'clock bell sounded from the tower, and we discovered we had more in common than we originally thought…though, admittedly, our first encounter wasn't much of an indication."

"Over the next several nights, it was the same way: tea during the Fire Watch with late night conversations. Then the nights started turning into weeks, and somewhere along the line, it just…happened."

Anathacia leaned into the window of the carriage and let her eyes drift across the world that passed by. The story was finished, and a mirage of summer memories flitted in and out of tangible grasp. She wasn't quite sure how to deal with the warm glow that harbored in her chest as she sat silently and relived those nights to herself—and she was a little afraid that Mirana would see through it. But she was too happy to choke the feeling off for the sake of formality; and so, still smiling to herself, she chose to ignore the demand for propriety that part of her—the part left in Court that stood straight and talked only of the weather—had grown accustomed to.

Those nights belonged to her and Stayne; no court in Underland would ever take that away.

Mirana gazed thoughtfully at her cousin in silence for a moment.

"I don't believe I've seen you this happy since before your mother passed, Thacia dear…or perhaps when Uncle Farian presented you with those daggers of yours. You were all beaming and smiles that day, too."

Anathacia twisted the fabric of her skirts in her hands, averting eye contact—but the shadow of a smile still flickered on the corners of her lips.

"Mirana…It may be too late to mention, but Father doesn't know about…well, Stayne and I,"

The Duchess risked a cautious glance at The Queen, obligated—though not wanting—to gauge a reaction.

"I don't suppose you could…well…not, err…not mention this? To Father, I mean?"

The Queen gave a small frown.

"It is against my conduct to be deceptive, Anathacia." Mirana reproved, and Anathacia felt her heart drop into her stomach.

"However—as long as there are no questions, I shall tell no lies."

The Duchess felt a surge of relief.

"You scared me for a moment, Mirana. I was trying to picture Father's reaction to the situation…it wasn't pleasant."

"If it makes you feel better—you'll pardon the term— scandals are by no means something unheard of in any court." Mirana tapped her nose wisely.

"Marmoreal is no exception, I assure you—you aren't the first to ask such a favor, and you shan't be the last."

The conversation dribbled into less substantial topics from that point; from court gossip, to gowns, to the Wabe Celebration, freshly ended. The two cousin's point of interest roamed with the caravan across the bleak countryside of Witzend for a considerable two hours—but after an instance of contented silence had fallen between the two, Anathacia's head began to nod deeper than she intended, and her eyelids grew heavy. She eventually submerged into a listless sleep, lulled by the ghostly echoes of a clock tower from a not-so-distant memory, the phantom touch of dark leather against her bare skin, and the rocking of the road that pounded on beneath her into the moonless night.

When Anathacia awoke, Mirana and her followers were gone. She was in her own bed again; the gauzy curtains that veiled her from the outside world fluttered playfully in the breeze, which begged an audience from the open balcony doorway. Anathacia wondered vaguely how she had ended up in her own room, but something on the edge of her recollection floated in and out of her drowsy mind—she could almost remember the shimmering, yellow haze of torchlight—Mirana's gentle 'shhing'—strong hands that carried her easily—was that Chessur's smile?—and from somewhere distant, her Father's voice.

Anathacia lifted her head from a mound of silk pillows and swept the room with a sleepy glance. Everything stood still in glittering attention: the silver vanity, the wardrobe, even her daggers shone dully from their mounted position above an empty fireplace. It was almost in a better condition than she had left it.

The Duchess then realized she was still fully dressed in her ball gown, now crumpled and twisted by her restless slumber. She rose silently and crossed the marble floor to her wardrobe, wrestling with the layers of lace and string as she did. Her corset had barely slid from her waist when a sudden, small sound caught her attention; she snapped her head up and stood still, listening.

At first she thought it might have been the dangling curtains had caught too much of the night's breeze—but there it was again! A chirp—a flutter—then a tiny dark shape, darting about the ceiling in an endless flurry of movement.

Still bemused with sleep's solid hold, Anathacia paused and turned toward the creature, watching as closely as her unfocused eyes would permit—and then it registered.

The Duchess gasped as, overjoyed, she realized the tiny bat wore a sparkling diamond pendant around its almost non-existent neck—and tied to its miniscule paw, a scrap of parchment folded with precision into a delicate envelope.

A carrier-bat.

She gave a soft whistle to the creature; the bat chirped again in response, and swooped low into her outstretched hands. She stroked it gently as she fumbled with the letter attached to its paw, picking carefully at the impeccable knot that secured it. Finally, with her hands shaking, the parcel came free and floated to the floor; the bat, equally liberated, flickered away with a flap of its petite wings into the high, gloomy corner of the room.

Anathacia stooped to regain her quarry from the glassy floor. She shuffled back to her bed, tearing off the top of the envelope easily and unfurling the letter within. The silver starlight that flushed through the balcony was substantial enough to read by; Anathacia dived wearily between the curtains of her four-post bed, and her heart skipped a beat as she recognized the strong, unadorned penmanship of the letter.

_Anathacia,_

_I love you. I'm only sorry I never had the chance to say it into your eyes tonight._

_Here's to hoping this bat will reach you before the dawn. I ride to Deymuun at the first opportunity that comes along—which may not be so far away, though I can't say more for certain._

_Don't risk a reply—Crims is overcrowded due to the Celebration. A return bat may never find me. Just be content with the knowledge that my heart belongs only to you._

_Farewell, My Lady. I think of you more often than you know._

_Completely yours,_

_-Ilosovic_

Anathacia read and reread the letter—so much so that, when she finally closed her eyes, the image of the dark ink scrawled across the paper remained burned into her vision. She smiled.

She was happy—truly, unabatedly, and incorruptibly happy. On that night, as she lay alone and curled over the silken sheets of her bed, caressed by the breeze and starlight alike, clinging to the written words and promises of a secret lover, she felt as if she owned the world. She didn't care what the dawn of a new day would bring; she didn't care about the scars and insults of her past; at that exact moment, everything in Underland was in it's place.

This euphoria eventually coaxed The Duchess back into the bliss of a quiet sleep. She didn't even realize she still wore half of her ball gown—or that she still clutched the crumpled love-letter to her chest.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 - in which the plot is set into motion, the narrator takes a sharp-pointy stick to our dear Knave's motives, and a cheeky bat is chagrined to discover that Stayne is bad at remembering addresses.

Sorry that I haven't uploaded for a few days, and I apologize for the lack of responses. Real life is catching up to me, sporting a full fledged Guy Fawkes mask and prattling on about some vicious vaudevillian vengeance and violent vendettas. (HAHAHA okay that wasn't that funny) JSYK, I will probably not be updating more than once a week from now on. I'll try my best to respond to any R&R, (and even some that I have yet to respond to from the last chapter) but if I don't, please don't take it negatively! Real life has screwed me over recently and I'm kind of lucky to even have this chapter up at this point.

The next chapter will be a more detailed look at Thacia's life, as well as her relationship with her immediate family. Stayne doesn't actually appear in the next chapter, but he's mentioned - so if you really object to Thacia as a character and really couldn't care less about her, you've been given a fair warning.

Fun Fact: the name "Blythard" = "Bill the Lizard", condensed and spelled with a 'y' because 'Blithard' looked/sounded too much like 'Blizzard' with a lisp.

Again, thanks for any feedback in advance - both positive and negative are welcome, as long as the negative is constructive in some way.

Enjoy~

* * *

Ilosivic Stayne leapt up the long, winding gloom of the Crims High Tower stairwell, easily securing the narrow flight of steps two at a time with a single lanky stride. His right hand traced the curve of the stone tower interior as it flew by in the darkness, occasionally dispersed by the dancing torchlight as he read the otherwise unseen path through the passageway with his touch. Cautiously trapped in Stayne's left hand was a bat, fluttering helplessly against the Guard's carefully curled fingers; laced to the creature's paw was an unadorned envelope, bereft of an outer seal or addressee, and containing something more painfully significant than even the hardened soldier of the Crims Citadel cared to admit:

His heart.

The words of the letter were simple and straightforward; no prose, no alternative inspiration other than the truth—which, in all probability, may have been the reason Stayne originally discovered difficulty in penning his love for Anathacia. Honesty held little rank on Stayne's agenda, generally speaking. His career had been granted the substantial foundation of a guarded silver-tongue; nothing more than a well-calibrated façade that, whenever he looked into her cool blue eyes, he realized he couldn't bear to support.

To level with himself was one thing—but to offer fervent honesty so willingly to an equal…that was one potential which Stayne doubted he would ever fully comprehend.

The slouching shadows of the spiraling tower causeway melted out into the fifth-level chateaux, which, as the guard emerged from the passage, appeared empty of a proper watch. Stayne frowned as he strode briskly to the balcony edge, composing a mental note to file a report on the attending (or rather, absent)watchman.

The High Tower was aptly named: the turret itself stretched almost one-hundred feet above the rest of the Crims keep, standing proud against the empty skies as an instantly knowable monument of power and intimidation, visible even across the countless miles of green plains that flowed into the horizon below.

During the day, the initially breathtaking view eventually grew wearisome after a few long hours spent in the visual tedium of lackluster fields and canyons under the blinding whiteout of a scorching sun. The Crims plains were by no means the most interesting area of Underland—at least, not during the day. But at night, even without the glossy kiss of moonlight, the myriad of glittering stars seemed increased tenfold in number and brilliance, burning feverishly against the velvet black sky. From that height above the world, it seemed you could simply reach out and impound the entirety of Heaven's untold trove with a strong sweep of your hand—or so it appeared to Stayne, in any case. The very edge of the world seemed within reach from so high—though even Stayne admitted that this conviction held no grounds for comparison to that of the Deymuun Keep. Mountain halls rarely suffered rivals, and even the ever impassive Ilosovic was seized by the empowering vertigo during his first visit to the Duchess's kingdom. It was perhaps the only reason he envied her.

Stayne leaned into the stone chateaux railing, dipping his glance down into the lower levels below for any sign of sentries in the darkness. Perceiving nothing, he held the still fluttering animal level to his face, securing the letter for the last time as he muttered a set of quiet instructions.

"Duchess Anathacia DeVyne, sixth level balcony of Deymuun Fortress—South Outland Mountain Range. Be there before dawn. Don't let anyone but the Duchess see you."

Stayne opened his fingers and thrust his hand into the sky—but the creature held back, flopping awkwardly to face the Guard with an inquisitive, anticlimactic squeak.

"What do you mean, 'You've never been there'?" Stayne demanded tersely.

"Look—just fly east into Witzend until you come to the Outland Border, then follow the mountains south until you hit the Keep. You can't miss it—large castle, pointed turrets, loads of levels, that sort of thing. If you're flying parallel with Tulgy Wood, you've gone too far."

The bat thought about it, then chirped another question.

"Yes of course there's more than one balcony on the sixth level—but you want the only one with silk curtains—silver, white maybe? Anyway, that's not the point—just, find her."

The bat managed an awkward shrug, dislodging his twinkling, diamond carrier's collar as he hobbled onto the edge of Stayne's long, pointed fingers—and with a deft tumble, the creature fluttered away into the night.

Stayne absently followed the bat with his gaze into the oblivion of the night sky, until he could no longer distinguish the creature's struggling form against the blackness of a midnight come and gone. He stood completely still for a moment longer, his thoughts having dwindled from purpose along with the shape of the carrier bat.

"Fairfarren…Anathacia." He said softly. He then turned slowly into a habitual about face, and retreated down the winding path of stairs he had already come; his mind was already twice as far away as the letter.

He didn't even remember the long, absentminded journey back down the High Watch, (Anathacia's kiss—that fervency—that _strength_ hesitating just beyond the initial, tender touch) however, he was summoned back to reality by the urgent hail of a second ranking Club as he exited the mouth of the looming tower, arriving in the fifth level courtyard.

"Officer Stayne! You're needed!"

Stayne snapped toward the soldier, narrowing his eyes in scrutiny as he approached.

"Captain Blythard's debriefing, I assume?"

"No sir—they began that without you, I'm afraid sir—but the situation has turned ugly for Captain Blythard—"

"So he failed, then." Stayne interjected with a muttered oath. The giant turned sharply with a lavish swirl of his cloak, stalking across the courtyard without waiting for an answer.

He had been right—and if fate continued in the same manner, dealing him the perilous hand he foresaw, then he _would _be back in Deymuun before the end of the week…But at a terribly inconvenient price.

Stayne could hear Lady Iracebeth's screams of fury even before he had reached the impassive oaken doors of the throne-room. The guard gritted his teeth in disgust, the shrill sounds from within clawing at his ears like a hungry bandersnatch—though he strove to collect himself and his inscrutable protocol, ignoring the painful clamor as he ushered the double-doors inward with a single, strenuous shove.

"…I DON'T CARE IF IT'S IMPOSSIBLE WITHOUT MIRANA'S SWORD, I WANT THAT CREATURE TAKEN CARE OF—I TOLD THAT BLASTED CAPTAIN TO CAPTURE IT, AND HE DIDN'T! HE DESERVED EXECUTION!"

The echo of Stayne's footsteps as he approached the thrones died dismally beneath the princess's rage.

The site within was hardly a strange one: Lord Jyorge, a seasoned, weary man with prematurely gray hair, slouched in his throne and held his bearded chin in his cupped hand, looking both pained and bored. Lady Iracebeth, her bulbous head now the appropriate shade of a ripe beat, paced frantically before the set of thrones, ignoring the two guards that stood in nervous attention just behind her husband.

Lord Jyorge looked up hopefully as Stayne strode forward and held his head high with a misgiving steadiness. It was only as he sank to one knee that Lady Iracebeth seemed to realize his presence, for she left off her resounding tirade and swirled on the guard to regard him. Stayne couldn't distinguish her expression as he bowed before the Royal pair.

"My Lord, forgive my late arrival. I was personally attending to the lack of watchmen in the High Tower," Stayne began smoothly.

"I only just received your summons."

"Yes, well, never mind that now Stayne." Lord Jyorge replied, a little absently as he straightened, composing himself into a more regal conviction.

"We have more pressing matters to discuss. As you are probably aware, Captain Blythard returned from the southern Tulgy Wood region just after the ending of the Wabe festival."

"I see. Where is the Captain now, my Lord?"

Lord Jyorge shifted uncomfortably, eyeing Iracebeth with the faintest reproach.

"He's—ah, indisposed, at the moment—"

"Locked in the dungeon under treason, you mean!" Iracebeth corrected indefinitely.

"To be executed at dawn!"

Lord Jyorge cleared his throat and pressed on before Iracebeth could continue her piece.

"Err, at any rate, Captain Blythard returned to inform us that he and his accompanying battalion had failed their mission. As a result, he has been stripped of his rank—which, as you should realize Stayne, leaves only one alternative replacement."

Stayne suppressed a crooked smile. His moment had, indeed, finally come.

"My Liege?"

Lord Jyorge rose stiffly, rearranging his crown as he did.

"Normally there would be a ceremony and lots of pomp, Stayne, and I do regret not following the regular protocol—but I'm afraid…err," He glanced hastily at Iracebeth, who glowered impatiently at both men.

"…I'm afraid we haven't the time to afford it—not just yet, anyway."

"Am I to assume, my lord, that you wish for me to take up The Mission where Captain Blythard left off?"

"Indeed—but before you do, I realize you require a more…_sufficient_ rank to command such a feat."

Lord Jyorge stood imperviously in front of Stayne, and drew his needle-like rapier from its leather sheath. Stayne had noted on several occasions that Lord Jyorge's rapier served little purpose other than a show of command—in fact, he was fairly certain that he could snap the wiry little blade without much more effort than he would exert into cracking a tree branch. Nevertheless, as the tip of the sword crossed both Stayne's shoulders, he remained reverent.

"Ilosovic Stayne, for your unyielding loyalty and unmatched prowess in the face of battle—among other circumstances, of course—I hereby instate you as Captain of the Crims Royal Guard."

"Err…Right then," Lord Jyorge glanced sideways; he seemed relieved as he noted Iracebeth's satisfaction take the form of a broad grin across her enormous face. Stayne rose, smirking himself, as the Lord replace his rapier. Lord Jyorge seemed to suppress a sigh as he spoke again.

"As you are already aware of the Mission which you now bear with your new title, Captain Stayne, I grant you access to any assets you deem necessary for the preparation of your departure—the armory, the guard, and the Provisions Meister are at your immediate disposal. I hope to see you off sometime before noon tomorrow."

Stayne bowed low again, observing from the corner of his eye as Lady Iracebeth, apparently appeased by the appointment and promise of progress, graced her husband one last time with a haughty smile before taking a final leave. She exited the chamber with a swish of her considerable skirts and escorted by a wary guard.

"…Sorry to force this on you, Stayne." Lord Jyorge muttered wearily as Iracebeth disappeared.

"But she wants that creature something dreadful…and when she gets in one of those moods where she's made up her mind, well, there's really no arguing with her—not that there's any more arguing when she's in a good mood, though..."

"I understand, my Lord." Stayne said quietly, keeping his eyes trained over the doorway through which the princess had vanished. He stood silently for a moment and shuddered, trying to forget all the previous occasions he had witnessed Iracebeth's exhaustive, unbecoming temper.

"I'll have Blythard pardoned before the night is out," The Lord reassured after a brief pause.

"And Iracebeth deals so many death sentences that I doubt she'll even remember his. Though I'm afraid the bloke will never be able to serve under my command again. I'll see what I can do about getting him transferred to the Queast Patrol. Though I may end up begging a favor from Queen Mirana and ship him off to—"

"My Lord," Stayne cut in coolly.

"Forgive me, but there is a certain matter which I wish to discuss with you, before I begin the arrangements for tomorrow's embarking."

Under normal circumstances, interrupting Royalty was considered obscene, and Stayne wouldn't have dared to jar the Lord's chatter. But Stayne was aware that, among other things, Lord Jyorge was just, amiable, and often so desperate for level headed company that he willingly overlooked many a slight on basic courtier manners.

"Oh, grand—walk with me for a while then, I could use some fresh air."

Lord Jyorge turned and dismissed the remaining guard with a nod; the eighth ranking Heart threw a smart salute and retreated through the side entrance just behind the thrones and to the left.

Stayne kept his pace and words even as he escorted the Lord from the hall. This was his only chance; if he went ahead too swiftly, he would risk losing the Lord's interest—and respect.

"I believe I may have found a way to remedy the late Captain Blythard's greatest weakness in The Mission, my lord."

"Weakness?" Lord Jyorge repeated, frowning slightly.  
"I wasn't aware that he had one. His platoon was graciously equipped for their Mission, in both men and supplies—though how Blythard ever let twelve out of the fifteen of my finest tenth rank Spades get murdered by that Monster, I'll never know—"

"That wasn't exactly what I meant to imply," Stayne said silkily, standing aside as he heaved one of the redwood double doors open for his Lord.

"I won't deny Blythard had everything of basic necessity at his disposal—though, I believe he was lacking something more…"

The Guard considered for a moment as he drew even with the Lord again; the closing boom of the heavy door behind him echoed down the deserted hallway, and he finished the thought.

"…Prudent."

"Being what, Stayne?"

Stayne smiled coldly.

"This creature is cunning, my Lord—even more so than the Jubjub bird, which, I wish to remind you, our outfit was only just able to ensnare. And though this task of capturing the dangerous creatures which plague our fair countryside is noble, hunting, in general, is far from our—or rather, the Crims Royal Guard's—greatest strength."

He paused for effect, allowing the truth to take root.

"…Though, fortunately, there is a sister realm not far off which would use our weakness as their greatest strength."

Lord Jyorge thought about it.

"…You must mean Deymuun."

"Precisely, my Lord. Not only is Deymuun the most efficient training grounds in all of Underland, but it was none other than Lord Farian who, many years ago, lead the successful expedition across the Crimson Sea to hunt down the Snark—I've heard he keeps the creature's head mounted in the dungeon, even now."

Lord Jyorge frowned.

"Though, if memory serves correctly, the incident resulted in Lord Farian losing his wife in a skirmish with the beast."

"A tragic turn of events, surly—nevertheless, my Lord, you cannot deny that Deymuun's Royal bloodline has upheld their reputation of military proficiency. Think on it, my Lord: even our highest ranking Heart Guards are no match for Deymuun's seasoned warriors—and as long as we remain on good terms with the House of DeVyne, why not use such a relationship to our benefit?"

Lord Jyorge stroked his beard, measuring the rationality behind Stayne's fervency.

"…What is it exactly that you propose?"

"Take a small advance guard—three maybe, but no more than five—and ride to Deymuun in the morning. Tomorrow, as early as possible, send word ahead to Lord Farian via carrier bat informing him that we come to seek his council…and perhaps assistance."

"Lord Farian does _not_ like surprises." Jyorge grumbled.

"He may not receive you so well without proper warning. But otherwise, it's not a bad idea—I would advise you send the letter immediately and wait for a positive response, though, before you embark. Deymuun's hospitality, though generous, should _not_ be taken for granted. Iracebeth won't like that—the wait, that is—but if it means a chance and finally incapacitating that horror, you have my approval. Iracebeth will just have to be patient…for once."

Stayne nodded formally—but his mind went wild with triumph:

He was Captain of the Guard.

He would see Anathacia.

And maybe—just maybe—this time, they wouldn't need to hide.

But before any of this could be relished, he had to assume the monstrous Mission that would either earn him reverberating respect, or make him a martyr:

He had to beguile the Jabberwock.

Stayne bowed.

"As you say, my Lord."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter the 5th - in which there's a substantial look at Anathacia's family, an overload of OCs, and somebody's secrets are finally revealed DUN DUN DUUUUNNNN

(I've been waiting to use that sound effect teehee~)

To the readers: I'm uber sorry this took so long to post. The truth is though, as much as I love writing this story, it's just not a large priority in my life right now. Couple this unhappy fact with the reality that I write humongous, exhaustive chapters, not to mention I'm an awfully slow writer, and you should have a pretty good idea why I fail at consistency in updating. I swear, I update as soon as I'm happy with the current chapter - I just hope it's worth the wait for you guys.

I'm relatively pleased with the way this chapter turned out, even if I forgot to physically describe Thacia's father when he's introduced. He's a big muscular old bloke with a long white beard and a strong chin. Partially/sort of/almost/kind of/barely/not really based on the White Knight character from Through the Looking Glass...maybe.

All R&R greatly appreciated, even the constructive negative type. (Also, this week is significantly better than the last one: I'm practically guaranteed to be able to respond this time around - huzzah!) Also, thank you for all the alerts and favorites I've received - I seriously would not have bothered continuing the story without such positive feedback from you guys. Always means a great deal to me. :'D

As a reminder, Stayne does not actually appear in this chapter - though he is mentioned in several places. I think the next chapter will be my favorite one yet, however, so if anything be sure to tune in for that~

In other totally unrelated news, a local community theater is putting on an Alice in Wonderland musical as their spring show this year. I'm auditioning for the part of the Cheshire Cat this Saturday.

I'm totally stoked. (why yes, I WILL be writing the rest of this fic backstage during downtime at rehearsals. :D EPIC FANGIRL SQUEE)

enjoy~

* * *

Anathacia awoke to the warmth of fresh sunlight playing over her face, and the distant, piercing blare of a formation trumpet from the compound below. She rolled over and pressed her face further into the pillow, not wanting to face the day.

Then her hand came in contact with a small, crinkled piece of paper; and in a flash of memory, the entirety of the previous night came flooding back to her.

Stayne—his kiss—Mirana—the confession of their affair—even the carrier bat.

Something with a warmth beyond the sun's caressed Anathacia and she smiled into the sheets, reliving the vivacity of the night's events; it gave her the strength she needed to hoist herself out of bed. She breathed in deeply and stretched as she sat up. Her joints cracked from the heaviness of a long night.

Father would want to hear all about the Wabe celebration, as he had declined the opportunity to partake in it himself—Thacia only regretted having to make the tedious last few days sound more interesting than the final night.

Which, of course, she would omit entirely.

* * *

Anathacia straightened her posture as she descended the glass staircase—one out of the countless staircases of the Royal Deymuun Hall. She had often tried to reason with herself _why _the entire interior of the Hall was comprised of stairways, but there was frankly no logical point.

The spacious Mountain Hall had been built centuries ago with a carefully calculated formula of thick, clear glass and brilliant diamond shards—the latter having been mined from the earth far below. The castle walls were initially opaque, though retained enough transparency to catch and imprison every ray of sunlight which fell across the mountain pass; and on a clear summer day, it was nearly impossible to see through the dazzling prism which the Hall became.

However, this wasn't even the most interesting aspect of the architecture—apart from glass, Deymuun Hall had been constructed solely on the design integrity of staircases. Literally, the whole castle was comprised of stairwells: some went up—some went down—some went no where—some spiraled across the wall—others across the high ceiling. The intricate labyrinth offered a dizzying feat to visitors as well as the unwary: a curious stranger's preconceived path seemed always snatched around an impossible corner as the eyes lied to the mind amid the confusion of wonder and illusion.

This provided no end of entertainment to the House of Deymuun, as it was hardly uncommon for a visiting soldier, not accustomed to the mountain Hall, to nearly lose his head as he tried to follow a staircase that suddenly spiraled into the open air. Anathacia remembered the first time she had witnessed Stayne attempt to navigate the treacherous interior. She had watched from below as the guard had tried to walk off of the third level landing, almost fifty feet above the main hall—and had her brother Javaire not been the leading escort, able to catch Stayne by his cloak at the last second, Anathacia was certain that Stayne would not have survived the dizzying fall.

Anathacia alighted on the floor level, whose interlaced diamonds and glass shards shimmered in a blinding barrage of sharp spectrums even as she looked. She was suddenly aware of voices carrying on indistinguishably from the main Chamber across the hall, which was closed off by two massive doors, iron and white marble in construction—strangely, she noticed, there was no attending guard in the outer hall. Thacia assumed that all available hands were busy in the training compound far below the fortress—probably overseeing the new arrivals sent by Mirana from the Mamoreal Guard.

She crossed the hall and stood pensively for a moment, running over a selection of key events that would both satisfy and bore her father when the inevitable interrogation commenced.

She smoothed her skirt and straightened her bustier one last time out of compulsion; then, drawing herself up piously, she entered the Chamber, throwing her head back as she did with the double doors.

* * *

"Javaire, be a good lad and pass the sausage, son—come on, be quick about it! Sorry Thacia, as you were."

"There's not much else to tell, Father." Thacia said serenely, sipping idly at her teacup now half filled with a sweet, lukewarm substance not askance to dishwater. Deymuun has hardly known for its culinary expertise, and the morning tea always suffered accordingly.

"After the first few days in Mamoreal with Mirana, there was the Masquerade Ball in Crims, which dragged on till last night."

"And how did that event fair?"

"Enjoyable for the first few hours—stuffy, repetitive, and crowded for the next two days."

"I'll wager that pompous old bloke from the Salezen Grom district was there." Javaire drawled beneath a conveniently placed yawn from his seat farther down along the breakfast table. Thacia threw him a scowl, but Lord Farian interrupted with a sputter before she could respond.

"What, duke Lumpchkun? What are you implying, boy?"

"Oh, he was there alright." Thacia said darkly into her teacup.

Her brother snickered again, twirling his empty fork between his fingers and not bothering to look at her. Javaire retained a similar in stature to Anathacia: light blond hair, a long, pointed face, and just as unforgivably tall. There was never doubt in any mind that the two were related, based on outer appearances—they were all too obviously family. The only factor which may have indicated otherwise was the outstanding contrast in personality, which individually translated into each of the sibling's eyes. Where Anathacia's cool blue eyes were often reserved and calculating, Javaire's wild green gaze processed his surroundings with a casual scorn, harsh and suspicious. He was, more often than not, condescending, insincere, and partial to exhaustive sarcasm; it was a mixture of character that only a mother could love.

But, as their mother had died several years previous, Anathacia had been obligated to assume the monstrous task herself. More than once she had almost given up completely.

"By your tone, I'll also wager he asked you to at _least_ one dance—per night, that is." Javaire continued.

Lord Farian frowned, suddenly worried.

"Thacia, what's this now? You haven't gone and accepted a suitor without telling me, have you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Father." Anathacia shot Javaire a frosty glare.

"And for your information, _brother_, I was only obliged to dance with him the first time he asked."

Javaire glanced sideways with an infuriating grin, which reeked of knowing all too well what she had meant to conceal.

"How many times did he ask you, then? Come on, spit it out."

Anathacia considered for a moment.

"Seven." She said flatly. Javaire snorted.

Lord Farian continued to frown, though as Thaicia observed, there seemed to be less concern and more reproach.

"You denied a duke of Crims six times, Thacia?"

Anathacia rolled her eyes and bit her lip in frustration.

"I was civil about it…Mostly. I told him I wasn't partial to dancing—but Father, you should know that anyway."

"You should hire that fellow of cousin Mirana's to teach you a thing or two." Javaire mulled.

"What's his name? Hatetop—Highhat—?"

"Hightopp? Mirana's resident hatter?"

"That's the one."

"Come to think of it, he was there too—made a spectacle of himself during the first day of the Masquerade." Anathacia wrinkled her nose.

"Though if you're going to make me learn to dance, I refuse to learn that blasted futterwhacken of his. It seems terribly painful, even to observe, and outside of a device for attention, it serves no purpose. Besides," She muttered.

"The body isn't _supposed_ to do that."

"There is something to be said for entertainment purposes—especially in a court." Her father put in around a mouthful of egg.

"Although, Thacia, if you did the futterwhacken during the next grand celebration in the kingdom, you're likely to drive away suitors faster than Aunt Feignaway's mustache." Javaire smirked.

Thacia blinked.

"That is an excellent point. On second thought, I may have to look up Hightop when I'm next in the Mamoreal area."

Javaire responded with a chortle of satisfaction; Lord Farian, however, reproved her evenly.

"Now, Thacia, you're not a child anymore. You're nearing your twenty third birthday—"

"Or your 8,142nd unbirthday," Javaire observed.

"which ever makes you feel older."

"Precisely—and it is high time you accepted the prospect of marriage in your future. At this point, it is unwise of you to decline the interest of any more suitors…at the rate you're currently accustomed to, anyway." Her father sighed.

"Next thing you know, there won't be any more Royalty left in the whole of Underland that you won't have already rejected."

"But is it so important that I marry so well?" Thacia murmured.

"Like it or not, Anathacia DeVyne, you're part of the Royal Family," Lord Farian replied severely,

"A marriage of proper rank is expected of you. I say this as both your impartial Lord, and as your father."

Anathacia risked one last protest, staring pointedly into her teacup.

"I know—but I'm not even to inherit the Kingdom…My darling younger brother is next in line for the throne of Deymuun, anyway. I don't see why it should matter as much who—that is, _if _I marry."

"Oh, so now it's _my _fault that we're both stuck to pick a spouse from the Court gaggles." Javaire scowled across the table.

"At least _you _have them lining up for you—whereas _I'm_ the one that's supposed to be clambering to _start _the line…"

"But at least there are plenty of nice faces that will have you," Anathacia argued irritably.

"Airheads they may be, the women in Court are generally quite pretty—now their male counterparts, on the other hand," She curled her lip in disgust as she spoke.

"They all have beards. And if you find one without a beard, he's got a mole—find one without a mole, he's fat—find one that isn't fat, and he's old—and if you find a decent looking, slim young prince without facial hair or mole, he'll already be married."

Lord Farian chuckled appreciatively.

"And don't even get me started on the height difference," She continued heatedly.

"It's all very well for you, for you're a duke, and the men are supposed to be tall—but I can't go through life a full head taller than my husband—"

"Cousin Iracebeth does." Javaire injected sleekly.

"_Javaire,"_ Lord Farian growled,

"You go too far—watch your tongue." He flashed the duke a look of warning—Anathacia tried her hardest not to smile.

Lord Farian turned to his daughter.

"I'm glad to see you have, at least, considered setting some standards for yourself, Anathacia." Her father said promptly.

"Though I'm afraid if it's height you're after, your options are slim to none. The only other family outside of Deymuun that boasts of giant's blood is the Stayne House, under the Crims standard—and you are _not _marrying a guard."

Anathacia felt the smile slide from her face, and her blood ran cold.

"I dunno Father," Javaire drawled.

"That Stayne fellow does seems to fit her standards—tall, no facial hair or moles, and not much older than either of us. How about it, Thacia? Are your rules so rigid that you would marry so low?"

"It is because of the rules that she would not dare to marry so low." Lord Farian decided. Thacia kept her gaze low and did not respond at all. Neither her brother nor her father seemed to gauge her odd reaction, however, as Javaire sat up with a jolt and a snap of his fingers.

"Oh! I've only just remembered—speaking of the Crims guards, father, we received a carrier bat early this morning from Lord Jyorge."

Both Lord Farian and Anathacia looked on with sudden interest as Javaire fumbled through his jerkin pocket for a moment, before withdrawing a folded piece of clean, white parchment.

"Read it for yourself," Javaire said, sliding the paper across the smooth, marble surface with a casual flick. Lord Farian swept the note clear of the table, catching it up to the morning light and unfolding it.

"It seems they're getting serious about the predator problems in the Tulgy Woods." Javaire explained without any genuine interest.

"Apparently they just lost half a battalion of soldiers trying to hunt the Jabberwock, and they've finally found the sense to ask our advice on the matter."

Anathacia wasn't even aware that she had been holding her breath until she began to feel faint.

_So this is the chance to ride to Deymuun that Ilosovic hinted of in his letter_, She thought.

_But at such a terrible risk...Will he truly be hunting down the Jabberwock?_

Lord Farian's frown grew more pronounced as his eyes flew down the letter, and he stroked his beard absently.

"They do seem sincere about seeking our council," He muttered.

"But with new regiments arriving every day from Mamoreal, I'm not sure we can spare even that—our full capacity will be reached before long as it is…" Lord Farian sighed again.

"I do hate to turn down Jyorge, though—I can tell from the tone of his words he seems earnest."

Suddenly, Anathacia brightened with inspiration. She shuffled uncertainly in her seat, then cleared her throat and spoke.

"…Father," She began slowly.

"How many soldiers does he wish to send?"

Lord Farian glanced across the letter again.

"He says three, though I doubt that's including a herald or other court escorts. Probably about six—why?"

"Well, if council is all they seek," Anathacia said placidly.

"Let me deal with them. After all, I lecture in strategy all the time—and as such, if anyone of the House of DeVyne is qualified to plan a trap for the animal, I presume I am. Besides, we _can't_ simply turn down Crims—Cousin Iracebeth would…err, that is, _may_ be offended."

Lord Farian seemed impressed.

"That could work," He said, gazing thoughtfully at his daughter.

"Though I was under the impression that you weren't on particularly good terms with the Crims Guard, Thacia," The flicker of a smile was in his eyes.

"I'll never forget how you begged to deliver Queen Mirana's sword by yourself last summer."

"If it means riding Underland of the Jabberwock, I can swallow my pride for a few days." Anathacia replied with convincing dignity. Javaire snorted again.

"With their reputation, though, I doubt Crims will be so obliging." He muttered. Lord Farian drew himself up solemnly.

"Very well, Thacia, if you're certain you're willing to head off this affair, as your brother and I will be swamped under Mirana's commissions, then you have my permission. I shall send a reply to Jyorge with haste—be ready to accommodate three officers and several escorting pages. Oh, and as undoubtedly one of the officers will be the Captain of the Guard, you may offer him the guest tower as a sign of good hospitality."

Anathacia smiled graciously, but not for the reason Lord Farian drew to assume.

"As you say, Father."

He nodded decidedly.

"Right. Your brother and I must off to the training compound to oversee staffing issues with the armory department. I expect Captain Stayne and his advance guard will arrive sometime within the next two days."

The Duchess jolted upright in surprise, and was only faintly aware of the sharp clatter of fallen silverware as she did so. Lord Farian and Javaire stared curiously at her.

"Is something the matter, Thacia?" Lord Farian said, his brow furrowing.

"I—That is—I believe you mean Captain Blythard, father?" She strove to retrieve her disposition as disbelief constricted her throat.

"The letter mentioned that Blythard has recently been relieved of his duties." He waved a hand dismissively.

"Probably because he failed in his mission to secure that creature. First Officer Stayne received a promotion to fulfill the necessary position, and he now holds the title of Crims Captain. Now if there's nothing further, I shall proceed in sending Jyorge a reply. Javaire, meet with me down at the blacksmith's quarter when you're finished."

And before anything further could be said, Lord Farian rose from the table and swept promptly from the hall through the south exit.

Anathacia sat back in frozen incredulity for several still, silent seconds. Javaire reached for the teapot and poured himself a generous third cup, taking no notice of his sister's assumed paralysis.

"Looks like it's your lucky break, Thacia." Javaire smirked over his cup.

"Captain of the Guard is quite a title to achieve. Father would _have _to agree to that Stayne fellow now."

Javaire finally looked up, congratulating himself on a repartee well played—but by the sudden expression of disbelief as he met Anathacia's gaze, she knew that the bewilderment in her own eyes gave away more than words ever could have.

There was a pause.

"…Oh Thacia, you can't_ possibly_ be serious!"

"…Please Javaire…don't tell father."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter the sixth - in which we discover that Thacia doesn't believe in creative liberties, Stayne reveals a portion of his vicious side, and witticisms abound.

Not gonna lie; some of my favorite dialogue is in this chapter. Probably why it's my favorite chapter so far.

Speaking of which, the chapter divisions may be a little choppy/insubstantial from here on out, at least for a little while. I'm having heaps of trouble trying to keep the chapters even, both in content and in word number. This one actually turned out to be a great deal longer than what I was originally going to post - I almost cut it in half, because it seemed too long, but I decided I liked the flow of it too much.

As ever, thank you for any past and future R&R you might extend my way. I am extremely grateful and flattered and overjoyed to receive anything.

Sadly, I didn't get the part of the Cheshire Cat in the community theater production I mentioned last time - but I *did* make it into the production as a mute background character, so that's something at least. Still a bit bummed, but hey, I'm in the show, which is something that less than half of the people who auditioned can actually claim. (did that sentence even make sense? I can't tell. I should be in bed.)

Buuut I digress, and without any more tomfoolery -

enjoy~

* * *

Golden pools of light from a setting sun filtered through the High Spire of the Deymuun fortress, flooding the sparkling interior of the glass tower with hues of pink, gold, and bruised purples. Anathacia absently fondled the ivory handle of the dagger strapped across her left hip as she climbed the steps of the great tower, gazing out through the shimmering panes of the walls and across the dwindling countryside below. The ascent through the tower was a daunting task within itself, but with the height of the mountain and fortress alike revealed with constant, crystalline transparency from every angle, the High Spire was a climb not intended for the faint of heart.

She paused for a moment, partly to catch her breath, and partly to savor the warmth of the remaining sunlight that spilled through the diamond shards of the Deymuun glass. She had decided to wear her guardsmaid outfit for the occasion; a hitched skirt of navy blue with matching leggings and undershirt, a formed chest piece of silver, engraved with sapphire, and boots and pauldrons of the same dark leather. From her hips swung her two most prized possessions: twin daggers, one for each hand, presented as a gift from her father on her 19th birthday. Both weapons were of identical craft; the handles, polished ivory inlaid with opals and grips of silver. The blades were her father's own design: wickedly thin, the folded layers of marbled gray-and-black Jabbersteel curved into a slender, vicious tip capped with pure diamond—unbreakable unless pitted against its own kind.

Her whole demeanor suggested a savage elegance rarely found in any other court; but in Deymuun, the Hall of the Mountain Lord, nothing less than such an image was tolerated.

Anathacia leaned on the railing and let her gaze drift into the brilliant horizon. She was still for a few seconds as she reflected over the past two days; after convincing a reluctant Javaire to stay quite of their affair with a mixture of begging, bribes and (eventually) blackmail, the day had passed in a flurry of carrier bats and preparations. And now, by the very next evening, lodging had been made, battle plans drawn, ready to present, and Anathacia was on her way to greet the Crims Embassy in high-flying Deymuun fashion.

Anathacia stood still and close her eyes, allowing the galloping echoes of her heartbeat to press away the silence that surrounded her.

Suddenly there was a soft rush of air like a dreamer's exhale, not quite faint enough to be overlooked as a figment of the imagination. The Duchess smiled as she recognized the sound, but did not turn around as she spoke.

"I had begun to wonder if you had even made it back from Crims, Chessur." She addressed the new specter, who she knew to be floating jovially just beyond her turned back.

"Sadly I had my own errands to run, Duchess—though I'm touched you even thought of me through the undoubted excitement of the past few days."

"You've heard it all by now, then?"

"I've heard some and seen enough." The cat said pleasantly.

"I'll admit, Javaire's expression when you gave away your affair with the Crims guard was…amusing, to say the least."

"You can find an occasion of amusement in anything, dear sir cat." She replied as she turned to face her friend. Chessur's grin grew wider and brighter along with his eyes.

"All will be right with the world as long as there's still at least one thing to smile about."

"Sage advice—if it weren't coming from a cat that couldn't stop smiling if he wanted to." Anathacia reached to ruffle the fur on Chessur's muzzle with a finger.

"On the contrary, Duchess mine," The cat purred.

"I could in fact stop smiling if I had half a mind. Such as it is though, I haven't yet, shall we say, found an occasion to."

"That, and you probably only _have _half of your mind left anyway." Thacia chuckled.

"Well played, Duchess," The cat conceded, stretching onto his back.

"Though sadly, I haven't come to play the part of a half brained banterer."

"What, you're on a mission? And here I thought you just missed my company." The Duchess pouted. The cat drew himself up into a gratuitous bow.

"Well, there's always that reason. But your lovely face aside, I thought you aught to know your guests have been sighted at the base of the mountain."

Anathacia's eyes grew wide.

"They're here already?"

"You'd best be on your way down to meet them. They can't be far from the pass now."

Anathacia only just took the time to throw a hasty word of thanks back over her shoulder as she raced up the spire, all weariness passed with the stairwell around her.

_He's here…By the Watch, he's here!_

Her furious climb endured for another few minutes; by the time she swerved the final corner of the spiraling corridor, shinning beads of sweat crowned her forehead, and her breath came in desperate and jagged and not enough.

The landing was a darkened, marble structure, different from the rest of the tower and generously spaced. The room within had been organized into a group of four large stalls, two on each side, with a broad stretch of path separating through them. This path led straight across to a leveled ledge, which protruded out into the emptiness of the open air without rail or safeguard.

Anathacia did her best to ignore the pangs of her lungs as she strode into the stables. Each stall housed a beast of monstrous size and fantastic shape; a single griffin occupied each of the four spaces, one belonging to each of the foremost members of the Deymuun Royal family. Lord Farian's mount was a tar black beast of terrifying build, barely contained within its own private walls. Anathacia could feel his harsh yellow eyes criticize her every move as she swept passed. Javaire's silver and dapple-grey mount hadn't even bothered to awake at her arrival, letting escape no more than an exhaustive yawn as it fidgeted a great wing back over its head.

The Duchess' heart sank a little as she passed the stall where her mother's old griffin slept in a withered, curled ball of ragged fur; once white as snow, the creature had taken her mistress' death to heart all those years ago, and never fully recovered. Her disheveled pelt was coated in sand and dust and other signs of apathy, and aside from the occasional few minutes of exercise once a day, she never allowed anyone to ride on her back. Consequently, she rarely saw the light of day any more.

In the far corner stall, nearest to the ledge of the balcony, Anathacia's own mount had drawn himself haughtily up from the floor and stood to groom as she approached. The Duchess was more than a little proud of her mount, whose ruddy brown-red coloration seemed to catch fire in the dwindling sunlight. Though hardly the largest of his family, the griffin was swift and sure of foot and flight.

"Gryph," She said the creature's name in greeting, removing the steel bolt from the lock of the stall and entering. The Duchess had never had time for originality, when it came to naming things. She had always preferred the more concise and easy to remember to the majestic and ostentatious.

Gryph rose to all fours. He stepped proudly forward, shaking a great cloud of dust from its auburn, feathered mane. Anathacia stood back to give him room.

"It's time—lend me your wings, if you will."

* * *

The clear weather had lasted through the whole, daylong ride of the Crims embassy. Stayne and his men had set out as soon as a carrier bat from Deymuun had returned with the confirmation reply, bidding the Crims soldiers come and hold counsel at their leisure. Half the men were on foot; in consequence, the journey had been slow and dusty. But at last, as the sun had started to sink below the western horizon in a magnificent display of colors and stretched shadows, the icy, piercing spires of Deymuun Keep had loomed into view, the glittering, glassy towers of the fortress nestled among the Outland mountains like a great crown.

Stayne pulled his mount up short and motioned for the men behind him to do the same with a wave of his hand. The company halted.

"Captain Stayne sir?" A trepid Ace soldier began from somewhere near Stayne's right.

"Is there something wrong?"

"Nothing in the least." Stayne glanced down at the card guard, and added with a slight sneer:

"Though obviously you've never been to Deymuun before."

The guard shuffled his armor plated feet and retreated out of Stayne's scornful eye.

"Those of the House of DeVyne guard the mountain pass jealously," Stayne addressed the rest of his embassy over his shoulder.

"We must wait here to be escorted into the Deymuun Keep."

"How will they know that we've come?" Demanded an unseasoned rank three guard from the back.

"The watch will have spotted us miles ago." Stayne said promptly.

"Unlike the watch of Crims, Deymuun soldiers actually take their posts seriously."

"Huh, mountain folk take everything too seriously, if you ask me." A weary eight rank, who had been traveling on foot all day, grumbled.

"No one did." Stayne responded. The ice in his tone told the higher ranking guards that further questions would not be tolerated. However, the lower class three guard from before was yet unable to read between the lines of Stayne's dangerous humors.

"Heh, I heard they actually train their women to fight!" He snickered.

"Innit something? Imagine a pretty handmaiden trying to lift them shields or swing a spear. They'd probably go running off and cry once they'd got their petticoats all muddied."

Where the poor unseasoned soldier had expected hearty laughter from his new battalion, there was only the dismal howling of a mournful wind. There were three seconds of utter stillness, in which neither guard nor beast moved a muscle. Then Stayne dismounted from his horse, slowly, deliberately, and strode back to where the unfortunate third ranking guard stood.

Captain Stayne plucked the black leather gloves from his hands, first the left, and then the right. The entire battalion held their breath, knowing what was to come next for the hapless rookie.

Stayne stopped and towered over the young guard, looking him up and down, his expression unreadable. The new card guard visibly swallowed, finally understanding why Ilosovic Stayne was the singularly most feared soldier in all of Crims.

"Perhaps, if you're so confident in the lack of a woman's skills," Stayne began in a silky tone that oozed with false warmth.

"You'd do well to arrange a combat match with the Duchess. You've heard of her, I trust? Cousin to the White Queen, daughter of Lord Farian DeVyne himself. You could show us all just how easy it is to beat a woman in single combat. Sure, she may have been raised as a soldier all her life, and she might have some of the House DeVyne giant's blood in her – but not to worry, she is, after all,_ just_ a woman. I'm sure those horrible tales of the giant's bloodlust are_ just_ myths, anyway. She's nothing a third rank guard couldn't take care of – why, you could put her in her place without breaking a sweat, I'm sure."

Stayne gave a laugh that was a little too hearty. The guard, not sure any more if he was being mocked or encouraged, cracked a smile in response to Stayne's laughter, and joined in with two or three guffaws of his own.

That half smile was the worst mistake of his entire career. Quick as a starving viper, Stayne snatched the unlucky guard into the air by his neck. The soldier sputtered and hacked, trying to plead for mercy through Ilosovic Stayne's vice-like grip.

"The underestimation of your opponent is _always_ a fatal mistake." Stayne hissed, lifting the guard higher.

"When you are in war, whether your enemy is young, or old, male, or female, you treat them as an equal. Not doing so will _kill_ you. There are _no_ exceptions."

Stayne spat into the earth and released the soldier, who fell to the ground, gasping for air and massaging his bruised neck. The Captain turned to address the rest of the battalion, his eyes narrowed in disgust.

"A woman trained in war is especially beguiling," He went on.

"Women do not fight for honor and glory, but to protect. Men have everything to gain in war, while a woman has everything to lose – her home...Her family…Her lover."

The last word froze in Stayne's throat like a thief suddenly discovered with precious contraband. To cover his telltale guilt, he looked down his nose at the guard that still cowered in the dirt before him.

"Tell me something, soldier: a hungry bandersnatch comes across a rabbit in the woods. Which one will run faster: the one who wants a meal, or the one who wants to live?"

The soldier was spared the price of an answer when a long, piercing cry shattered the silence of the open air into pieces. Stayne and his men wheeled around toward the mountain range, where the sound had come from. Shading his eyes from the blinding brightness of the sky, Stayne perceived a massive, winged shape hurdling to the earth from a great height, straight toward their battalion.

"Captain – over there! The mountain pass!" someone cried. Stayne turned his head to see that an army of large, horse-like beasts fast approaching, pouring through the narrow crevices of the mountain-side like ants stirred from their nest.

"Ah, the Deymuun welcoming committee," He said, striding back to the front of his embassy and swinging himself deftly into the saddle of his horse.

"Punctual, as ever."

"Captain Stayne – what's that up in the sky?"

Stayne gave the shape another, almost lazy glance.

"Unless I'm gravely mistaken, which I'm not," He said, giving the reigns in his hand a firm flick.

"That would be Anathacia DeVyne – The Duchess of Deymuun herself."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter the 7th - in which transpires one of the singularly most uninspired chapters to date.

*sigh*

Sorry to make you all sit through it, but hopefully you'll find something in its duration that makes you happy enough to keep reading. Rest assured the next chapter will be a great deal more interesting - if slightly belated. Certain family members have been in and out of the hospital all week, and will probably be continuing such an uncomfortable game of hot-potato for at least several more months. (nothing life threatening at the moment - but nothing easily eradicated, either) As such, this story is almost literally the least of my priorities. Though I_ will_ continue to update whenever possible, I'm afraid the wait for each chapter could potentially end up longer than before. It sucks; I'm sorry; but as we say in my neck o' the woods, there ain't nuttin' to be done.

(I don't think we actually say that all too often but uh you get the idea)

As always, R&R and alerts and favorites makes me go all warm and fuzzy and melty-drippy all over my already stained carpet. So a big thank you in advance!

enjoy~

* * *

The griffin above them gave another wild, ear splitting cry as it tucked its wings into its side and went into a free fall, straight toward the earth. Anathacia was mounted fearlessly on its back, deterred by neither the sheerness of their plummet nor the wind that ripped at her face. In her right hand she held the creature's knotted reigns, and in her left she steadily bore a spear-turned-pennant, depicting the blue and silver griffin of the Deymuun crest, which fluttered furiously against the rush of the descent. Stayne saw the fierce flash of her armor and the glitter in her hair that told him she was wearing her full, impassive royal attire for the occasion. His heart gave a secret leap, and the resolve in chest weakened at the very sight of her.

"What a magnificent creature." He breathed. One of the attending Ace guards whistled in assent.

"I'll say so – though I always thought griffins were odd sort of creatures. I heard they only ever talk during times of war, and only then to tell their masters that their cause is a lost one."

"I was not referring to the steed." Stayne threw over his shoulder as he dug his heals into his horse; the animal sprang forward with a jarring whinny, abandoning the confused card guard to a cloud of dust. Anathacia and her mount were still in a free-fall, giving no regard to the fast approaching earth as they dove. Stayne gave a furious '_hiya!_' and his horse pelted toward them even faster. Still the Duchess fell – and still she gave no signs of slowing down.

Stayne was about to cry out, convinced that Anathacia would had not be able to break her fall in time – but at the last, final,_ possible_ second, the griffin spread its wings and righted itself again, catching the wind current and fluttering like a kite in mid air, not ten feet from the ground.

Stayne pulled back hard on the horse's reigns, and with a hideous screech of protest, the horse desperately fought to conquer its own speed; the black stallion dug its hooves into the earth, and the Captain of the Guard was half convinced he would be tossed from his saddle as their momentum was blocked by his sudden command. Miraculously, the horse managed to break off into an unsteady trot and Stayne maintained most of his position. Anathacia and her steed fell the last few feet to the ground with a light thud, the latter landing on all fours. The auburn griffin shook its head as the Duchess dismounted, sliding to the earth with a well-practiced, confident grace.

Stayne reigned his horse up along side her and slipped from the saddle. Her hair was in wild disarray from the flight, and she was breathing hard – and yet her perilous composure remained intact. She straightened and looked Stayne in the eye, sticking the fluttering pennant into the ground decisively. Stayne's gaze wandered up and down Anathacia's lithe frame, taking in every honed curve that spoke to her womanhood.

This wasn't the creature he had met with three nights ago during the agonizing tedium of a masquerade. This wasn't one of the airy court gossips he had seen stuffed into a silly dress and forced to fit into a suffocating atmosphere of royalty and pettiness. This was a warrior – one with the grace, strength, and passion worthy of Captain Ilosovic Stayne's love. This was Anathacia DeVyne, Duchess of Deymuun – and here, in the savage wilderness of the Outland mountain range, she was at home.

He could hear his battalion clamoring to catch up with him a good distance off. He would have given his right eye to take her in his arms and kiss here then and there – but there was protocol to contend with. There was the omniscient clutch of court politics that had to be evaded first. There would be time for emotions later, he knew. Stayne swallowed his lust and bowed graciously, never taking his eyes from the Duchess' face.

"My Lady certainly knows how to make an entrance," He murmured. Anathacia nodded coolly in return and extended a slender hand. Ilosovic Stayne took it and brushed it with a kiss that lasted a bit too long to be strictly diplomatic. He thought he felt a shiver run up the dutiful Duchess' arm.

"Captain Stayne," She said quietly. "We meet again."

So she had heard after all. Their eyes met a second time, and Stayne searched for any signs of betrayal, any of the same hunger that raged, stifled, within him. And then, for one instant only, something behind her solemn blue eyes glimmered – shifted – changed.

In that one instant, there was a flicker of uncertainty – and it was enough.

The Crims card guards skidded up to a halt just as Anathacia retracted her hand from Stayne's grasp. The Duchess recovered herself as she turned to face the Crims soldiers.

"The ranks of Crims are welcome in Deymuun," She began, her voice carrying across the windswept plain.

"In order to seek our counsel in your time of need. Though be warned: Any acts of hostility or broken rules of hospitality will _not_ be tolerated."

The Crims Guards stared blankly at each other, probably wondering why a woman was addressing them with such uncanny authority.

Stayne stepped forward and spoke in a low growl.

"Anyone who dares to trespass against our hosts will be dealt with by me…personally."

The entire Crims battalion stood a little straighter – though none so straight as the Three of Hearts, the recent victim of the Captain's contempt. Stayne repressed a smirk; obviously, someone had learned their lesson.

Anathacia turned to address Stayne.

"The Deymuun Color Guard is to escort the rest of your men up through the mountain pass." She said, gesturing toward the group of unicorns that had converged at the foot of the mountain, and were now steadily making their way toward Anathacia and the Crims battalion. Unicorns – half goat, half horse, all soldier – had inhabited the Outland mountain range since before Underland had had a king. Once Deymuun was established as a Royal district, employing unicorns as the preferred units of battle seemed only natural. Unicorns were strong, cunning, and unquestioningly loyal: as mountain creatures, they were also nimble and sure footed – and when in battle, they had a habit of biting their opponents… _hard_.

"I am to take you personally to meet my father Lord Farian, as quickly as possible." The Duchess continued. This statement confused Stayne – usually a Captain accompanied his soldiers to the training grounds, in order to affirm that everything had been ordered for their arrival accordingly, and was then summoned away at a later time. Stayne shot Anathacia a quick, questioning glance, though she either ignored it or did not perceive it.

By that time, the Deymuun Color Guard had arrived in a blocked and staggered formation, wordlessly surrounding the Crims battalion with acute efficiency. Every Deymuun soldier sported a saddle and a quilt of harlequin blue and silver, the colors of their service – though only one ancient looking unicorn wore his complete war armor; his beard draped in heavy wisps all the way to the ground, and his pale eyes stared through his faceguard with cold, metallic indifference. As the rest of the Deymuun soldiers halted, the ancient unicorn trotted promptly up to Anathacia and lowered his head, awaiting orders.

"You and those under you are to carry the Crims embassy through the pass safely – and with haste." The Duchess said to the creature.

"There's very little time."

The unicorn dipped its head in a salute, and gave a high whinny. Immediately every member of the freshly arrived Deymuun Color Guard approached a Crims soldier and knelt to the ground, indicating that each soldier should mount up into the blue and silver saddles upon their backs. The Crims soldiers were wary, however, and looked to their Captain for the final order.

"Well don't just stand there, you mimsy idiots!" Stayne barked into the confusion.

"Mount up! Do as our host says!"

The soldiers obeyed. Within less than ten seconds, both the Crims guards and their escorts were mounted and on their way back up the mountain pass; the ancient unicorn that had assumed command in the Duchess' absence was leading Stayne's own stallion.

Stayne waited until the last of the guards had disappeared between the cracked boulders of the mountain pass far away. Then he turned on The Duchess.

"Anathacia—" He tried to take her chin in one hand, but she turned away and averted her eyes.

"Not here." She said firmly.

"The Watch will see."

She retreated completely from Stayne's reach and swung herself smoothly onto the griffin's back. The creature clacked its beak reprovingly. Anathacia leaned forward and offered Stayne her hand.

"Ride with me."

Stayne knew by the fervency beneath her offer that she was not as collected as she appeared, and because of it, he was satisfied. He accepted her hand and hoisted himself onto the griffin's back, just behind the Duchess. Gryph gave an unhappy start and clawed at the ground, not in the least appreciating the added weight of an extra giant.

"I don't think he likes me." Stayne said as he leaned forward, not completely unconcerned as he fought to regain his balance against the creature's jerky movements.

"He's strong and he's swift. He'll get used to it." The Duchess shrugged.

Stayne was unconvinced.

"Tell me, my lady – how am I to stay on without any reigns?"

"If he wants to you stay on, you will." Thacia said simply, reaching a hand into the great tufts of fur in the griffin's main and stroking him, trying to put him at ease.

"…Although, I suppose if you are still a little…_apprehensive_,"

And by 'apprehensive', the Duchess actually meant 'afraid', Stayne knew – he could hear it by the slight, almost condescending smirk in her tone.

"You could always…put your hands around my waist. Just in case you find the flight _unsettling_."

Stayne chuckled; he had the feeling that the suggestion did not apply solely for the purpose of his reassurance. Her slight squirm as he wrapped both of his arms around her hips confirmed his suspicion, and he pressed in closer.

"As you say…my Lady."

Anathacia took the reigns in one hand and stroked Stayne's arm, leaning into his embrace by a cautious fraction. He pressed his cheek deep into her great, snowy white braid, and together the two lovers stole a precious jewel of a moment from the unyielding clutches of duty.

"Don't do anything foolish, Ilosovic," Anathacia whispered as Stayne tried to bring his face even with the nape of her neck.

"We _are_ being watched."

And with that, the Duchess kicked her booted heals hard into the side of the griffin, who reared and screeched in protest. The creature gave a great leap forward, and then another, and then suddenly the beast and both his burdens were climbing higher and higher into the sky.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter the 8th - in which transpires a fair amount of descriptive fluff, Thacia pulls a Titanic, and there's a considerable OH SNAP moment at the very end.

The chapter is a bit shorter than I would have liked, but I'd like to think that there's enough substance (read: STEAM OH MAI) to keep it worth while.

I wish I had a griffin to fly me to a sparkly city of staircases and a swoon inducing drop dead sexy (hahaha glover movie reference!) knave. :C

Chapter updates will continue being belated, I'm afraid. As always, thanks for any feedback and alerts you toss my way. They really do mean a great deal to me! 3

enjoy~

* * *

The plains below them dwindled away into a rippling expanse of dusty gold as Anathacia urged her mount to greater heights. Stayne felt the _whoosh_ of the wind through the creature's powerful wings as they beat a steadfast rhythm of ascent. His heart was pounding as they soared upward into the hazy blue freedom of the sky – and he noticed, with a silent smirk, that Anathacia's own heart was in the same sort of frenzy as his own. He could sense her pulse even beneath the thick fabric of her leather undershirt, and he could only speculate dryly over the reasons behind it.

The air grew colder and thinner and drier as they climbed. The griffin, having at last caught an updraft, ceased his heavy, laborious flapping, and followed the spiraling pattern of the wind into yet greater and more deadly heights. Stayne risked a quick glance downward, and felt himself go pale with thrill as he recognized just how high Anathacia and her steed had brought him. The Deymuun keep, now fully visible from their vantage point, seemed no larger than a model, and Stayne could barely make out the vast green patch of training fields that lay just beyond the castle. He turned away quickly from the dizzying view, overcome by a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the decreasing temperature.

The griffin left the updraft and sped straight into the heart of a foaming cloudbank a mile or more above the earth. Stayne braced himself as the animal fought to stay steady against the onslaught of turbulence and moisture that overwhelmed them as they entered. But in his arms, he felt that Anathacia had somehow managed to maintain her composure: she seemed completely at ease as they shot blindly through the hazy, opaque wetness that had consumed them. She was relaxed, matching the beast's every movement with a calibrated fluidity that spoke of more than just a trainer-to-animal relationship. Confused, Stayne couldn't place it – but the subtly of it was a beautiful thing as he felt her sway and dip and adjust her body to the griffin's every slight jostle. It excited him more than a little, and before he could stop himself, Stayne had reached up to turn the Duchess's chin over her own shoulder, leaned forward, and consumed her half turned lips in a furious kiss. Her skin was cold, and dripping with beads of rain as he kissed her twice more – but the mist that soaked her through only made her taste sweeter.

He half expected her to pull away and reprimand him, after he realized what he had done. What he did not expect was for her to respond with an equal passion, twisting around in the saddle as she welcomed his lips with something beyond happiness. With a gloved hand he traced away the gathered rainwater from her face, which grew hot beneath his cheek, and he felt her smile.

"And what of the Watch, milady?" He reminded her.

Anathacia pulled back slightly.

"I'd like to meet the soldier who can peer into the heart of a cloud and spot two lovers amongst its turmoil." She scoffed before resuming her intimate inspection of Stayne's face.

_Lovers…_

Stayne turned the word over in his mind and pondered it. The term was always being tossed around court with its fair share of incredulity and romanticism. Stayne himself had previously held it with high distain, putting it off as nothing more than the empty ideals of bored, besotted courtiers. But as his tongue begged an entrance between Thacia's barely parted lips, he decided the word had a certain, almost intoxicating ring to it – perhaps it was something he could get used to.

The cloud around them started to dissipate, no longer providing a shield of sanctuary for their forbidden conduct as the griffin started to tilt into a decent. Anathacia slipped away from Stayne and settled back into the saddle just as all of Underland became visible through the evanescent veil of wind and water. The Duchess bent low against her mount and reached to retrieve the reigns that draped at the side of the beast.

Stayne was then struck by a brusque realization that made him go numb.

"Tell me, milady – just how long have we been flying _without reigns?_" He demanded in a hiss. The Duchess cast a lazy, sidelong glance over her shoulder.

"It sounds like you think that Gryph can't manage by himself." She reproved.

"Have more faith. He knows the way home better than I do from this height."

Stayne was the opposite of reassured.

The glittering ramparts of the Deymuun Keep that crowned the Outland Mountains below imprisoned the dying sunlight, rendering it into millions of violent, blinding refractions. Stayne squinted against the brilliance, adjusting his stance as the griffin went into a steep, straight plunge toward the High Spire, still several hundred feet below them.

Stayne's heart leapt into his throat as the creature arrested into a nose-dive. Their speed was inconceivable, and the roar of the wind deafened him to any other sound; the world around them became a delirious blur of color as the walls of Deymuun spiraled closer and closer. Suddenly, with a wild cry, Thacia flung the reigns to the mercy of the winds and opened her arms wide, surrendering to the freedom of a deadly, thrilling dive. Stayne instinctively tightened his grip around the Duchess, the yell of alarm wrested from his throat by the angry rush of air all around him. He could only hold to her, helpless and overwhelmed, as they charged down, down, and down again still.

Just when Ilosovic Stayne thought he could take no more of it, the griffin gave a piercing screech, and with a tremendous effort unfurled his wings and struggled against the momentum of their fall. Somehow the creature was able to catch himself, and he careened into a jolted, broken halt not twenty feet above the High Spire. A few fevered beats of hearts and wings and time altogether, and at long last the haggard party alighted on the secure, solid surface of the tower's balcony.

Stayne slid from the saddle; his legs quailed beneath him, the remnants of a tumultuous adrenaline rush. He stood back to allow Thacia room to follow suit, offering her his hand in assistance. She accepted, and leapt to the ground with an air of grace and dignity.

"An excellent display of flying skills your highness, if I may be so bold." He commented in a desperate bid to recover his still shaken composure.

"You might as well be." Thacia replied.

"Father made sure that I was flying Gryph well before I could ride a horse – or, for that matter, even walk."

The griffin, which had been standing aside to catch his breath, suddenly snapped its head around and nipped indignantly at the Duchess.

"Though give credit where it's due," Anathacia conceded, ruffling the feathers under Gryph's great chin fondly.

"Without an appropriate steed, a rider is nothing but a fool with a pretty bridle."

She turned back to Stayne, and they stood still and faced each other for a few seconds. Stayne's expression, hardened against the merciless winds of their current, fantastic height, gradually diminished as he searched deep into the Duchess' eyes for several moments. He could find nothing to say or do, save reach to brush away the loose strands of her white blonde hair that dangled over her face. She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes.

"Thank you for the letter," She said at last.

"I know you must have risked a great deal to send it."

"The truth is worth the risk, for a truly beautiful woman." Stayne returned.

"I can never tell whether that silver tongue of yours is endearing or endangering, Captain Ilosovic." She said with a rueful half laugh. Stayne let slip a devious smirk.

"Perhaps another taste will help you decide, Duchess DeVyne?" He brought his face enticingly close to hers, ready and all but willing to resume where they had left off during their flight - but Anathacia gave a sudden start, and stepped back as if knocked from a dream.

"Not _here_, Ilosovic," She hissed.

"We're no safer from the Watch here than in the plains below!"

This reaction greatly annoyed Stayne; he frowned at her.

"You're paranoid, Duchess." He chastised.

"Honestly, what Watchman would ever bother to look up into the balcony of a tower almost two hundred feet above the rest of the fortress?"

There was a mild cough from somewhere within the High Spire stable. Both Stayne and the Duchess whipped around in shock, and Stayne felt himself freeze in horror at the sight that greeted them.

A tall, young man with piercing green eyes was leaning against the stall of a silver-dappled griffin, appraising the couple with obvious distaste. Stayne unconsciously swallowed.

"My brother." Anathacia moaned.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter the 9th - in which there's a fair amount of banter - some inspired, some less so - the use of Underlandian word 'Slurvish' for really no reason other than it's a dern cool word, and a slightly fudged medical anomaly-turned-plot device that I don't actually have to elaborate on until the next chapter, aha.

Updates will continue to be sporadic, though I'll try to keep them consistent for as long as I can. I found some rather poignant inspiration for the next chapter, so hopefully if this one doesn't impress, the next one will make up for it.

As always, R&R makes me bleed happiness out my nose - well, that and a shirtless Crispin Glover, teehee- and I am truly and greatly flattered by each and every alert you bung my way.

So without further adieu,

enjoy~

* * *

Javaire straightened and folded his arms, his thin lips pursed as he eyed the two of them with unabashed disapproval.

"Thacia, Stayne," He said at length,

"Good of you to join us."

Anathacia cleared her throat and stepped forward.

"I…I trust that the rest of the Crims embassy has been received, brother?"

Her attempt to manufacture a diversion from the present, undeniably scandalous situation only further inflated her brother's ire. He '_tched_' scornfully.

"Oh yes, they're here all right – every last one of those arrogant, no-good buffoons waving their pointy sticks and calling themselves 'guards' have, in fact, arrived. Father personally made an appearance at the training grounds to see them in, you know. Though he was a tad _put out_ to find that you hadn't bothered to see your guests through the pass yourself, Thacia. Wasn't sure what to make of Stayne's absence, either…"

In a flash of movement that Stayne was still too numb to fully perceive, Anathacia was suddenly menacing her brother's neck with the cold, razor edge of her right-handed dagger, her expression furious.

"You _didn't_." She demanded of him. Javaire, for his part, was completely unfazed.

"_No_, I didn't." He flicked the blade away from his face with an odd, complex, and very precise wave of his hands so that it no longer posed a threat. He regarded his sister.

"Though I _did _suggest that perhaps Captain Stayne had somehow fallen ill during a long day of travel, and that you had been noble enough to escort him personally to the infirmary."

"Preposterous." Stayne huffed.

Javaire turned on him with a look more cutting than Anathacia's daggers.

"I'll remember your gratitude the next time I catch you offering my sister a taste of your _silver tongue_, Captain Stayne." He fumed, to Stayne's utter mortification. The guard felt all the blood drain from his face and, finding no words, or even a voice, he instinctively glanced to Anathacia for some sort of reassurance.

"Javaire," Anathacia began, stowing away her knife and dropping all pretenses of hostility.

"I'm sorry – you frightened me, I thought for a moment –"

"Don't." He spat.

"I know what you thought. As it happens, I have as much to lose in the event of your…_affairs_ coming to light as you do, Anathacia. Or are you truly so selfish to assume yours is the only head that will roll if Father finds out?"

Anathacia lowered her gaze, humbled.

"Just get him out of here." The young man jabbed a thumb toward Stayne disdainfully.

"And make it look convincing. You know perfectly well that Father has a nose for anything that even faintly reeks of deceit."

And with that, Javaire turned and swept frostily from the High Spire. Stayne watched him go without regret, but as he turned to Anathacia, he was flummoxed to find her expression forlorn. Her gaze was trained on the retreating shadow of her brother as he disappeared altogether around the downward curve of the tower's glistening stairwell.

"Milady?" He began, not quite sure what to say or do. Anathacia sighed.

"He's right, you know." She admitted, more to herself than to him. In response, Stayne strode forward and secured the Duchess by her pale hand, pressing his cheek into her raw, cold fingers in a small effort to offer some wordless comfort. Anathacia looked at him.

"My brother has risked a good deal to help us conceal the errors of my own recklessness. I was ungrateful."

"Your brother is slurvish and peevish." Stayne said, intending to raise the Duchess from her sudden despondency.

"He cares nothing for the troubles of others."

But the Duchess whirled on him, and the harsh flicker of resentment in her eyes took Stayne aback; he retreated uncertainly, realizing he might have crossed a line. Anathacia regarded him stonily for a moment, before tossing her head with an airy sniff.

"Nevertheless," She relented.

"It would be prudent to accept what small window of opportunity he's forged for us."

"If it means that much to you," Stayne said, stepping forward again to seek some penance against the Duchess' momentarily diverted anger.

"I'm sure I could feign some mild ailment to stave off the suspicions of your Lord father."

"No good." Anathacia rubbed her temple in nervous contemplation.

"He's uncanny when it comes to perceiving an act. Javaire especially aught to know – honestly, the amount of times my brother tried to skive his duties when he was young, by claiming he had caught some nasty stomach fever…frankly, it's unflattering." She shook her head, and then turned to Stayne with an odd sort of expression; the kind of which heralded the occurrence of some scathingly brilliant plan.

"However…I have something else in mind."

Anathacia was suddenly standing very close to Stayne, and before he had even registered what had happened, he was aware of the satiny texture of her lips caressing his own. He closed his eyes and returned Thacia's embrace as she started running her fingers through his hair.

"I like where you're going with this 'something else', whatever it may be." He observed between a kiss.

"Do you trust me, Ilosovic?" She murmured, pulling back slightly.

"With my very being." Stayne pledged, searching for her retreated lips without even fully opening his eyes.

"Good."

The oddness of the short, lightly given observation did not strike Stayne until it was too late. When Anathacia kissed him again, Stayne closed his eyes completely and instantly lost himself to a warm, dark void of eager passion, velvety touch, and the cool, purer-than-the-mountain-air scent of the woman he loved.

When Stayne next opened his eyes, he was more than a little baffled – and not without good reason. For one thing, night had completely fallen; all the crisp golden hues of sunset had vaporized into the smothering darkness of a deepened evening, which flushed through the gauzy curtains of a nearby balcony. For another thing, he was lying abed in a room he did not recognize, strewn with dense, exotic furs and layered in the sublime folds of rich, silvery satin sheets. Yet another thing, Anathacia was nowhere to be seen, which was odd mainly because the last thing he could remember was her rather unexpected, albeit rewarding advance upon his lips. These three things the perplexed guard registered immediately – however, it took him several more seconds to realize the absence of his armor.

…And his tunic.

…And his mail shirt.

…And his normal shirt.

…And for that matter,_ any_ shirt.

Stayne tried to sit up, only to be weighed down by an inexplicable weakness in his limbs. He lay back again, wondering, rather appropriately, how in the whole of Underland he had gotten there. There were the nullified remnants of a once vibrant fire in the fireplace of the opposite wall; the dying embers within doing little more than exhaling phantasmagorical shadows across the marble floor, failing to ward off the cold mountain night from Stayne's bare skin. He had to work to stifle the shiver that crawled up his spine.

From somewhere high and far away, a bell tolled out eight strong and well-defined counts, clueing Stayne in on the time.

"…Eight o'clock," He muttered, drawing a pelt of shimmering white fur close over his partially exposed chest.

"What in any Hell happened to the last three hours?"

"Indeed,"

Stayne cried out in surprise and whipped around, his eyes dodging about the darkness and moonlight that intermittently splattered across the room – but there was no one. Nothing but a vast emptiness greeted his panicked, sweeping gaze.

The voice spoke again:

"Or is it even a single evening at all? Perhaps it's been two, or three – why, you could have been out for a whole week for all you know…"

"Who's there?" Stayne called out sharply.

"Show yourself!"

"Your manners are as reputable as ever, I see."

From the corner of his eye, Stayne saw movement near the fireplace; an unusually thick, opaque puff of smoke drifted from the ashes and collected at the very center of the room, swirling in a steady circle as if coaxed by a nonexistent breeze. Even before the great gleaming eyes of the Cheshire Cat were visible, Stayne was able to recognize the telltale signs of Deymuun's froward feline bond-slave.

"You there, Cat!" He growled, sitting straighter to better face the leering smile that seemed to grow even more luminescent in the moonlight.

"I want answers – what happened in the High Spire? Where is the Duchess?

"And still your same charming, gracious and amiable self. How very fortunate."

The Cat reclined in mid air, cupping his magnificent chin in his forepaws as he stared down his pointed, pink nose at the nonplussed Captain, his wide, glittering eyes reflecting a deep dislike.

"What Duchess DeVyne sees in you, Captain Stayne, I'll never know."

"You haven't actually answered my questions." Stayne said heatedly.

"Nor do I _actually_ intend to." Drawled the Cat.

"You see Captain Stayne, the only reason I'm _actually_ here is because I am obliged to deliver a message in the absence of a rather dear compatriot of mine. I owe you no answers whatsoever, and in your present – or perhaps permanent – bad tempered frame of mind, I have no desire to offer you any concordant insight on my own free will."

Before Stayne could protest further, Chessur had drawn himself up into a regal composition and began to recite with an overtly gallant bow,

"Duchess Anathacia DeVyne of the Royal Dynasty sends her acknowledgements and begs forgiveness for her current absence. She wishes me to convey her most ardent promise to attend you at her earliest convenience, and only hopes you'll find the good patience to await her arrival, and _not_ go seeking her yourself."

Stayne glared at the cat, suddenly finding himself with more questions than answers.

"Look, can't you just tell me –"

"I can," The Cat cut in,

"But I won't. Now, as much as I'd love to float around all day and bandy crooked words with a hooked-nose crook, I'm afraid I really must take my leave, for sanity's sake."

"Mine, or yours?" Stayne grunted.

"Doesn't really matter," Said the Cat.

"We'll all end up a bit mad in the end, one way or another."

And with that, the Cat drifted apart into an evanescence and was gone. Stayne sat back, feeling cheated and peevish. He glumly resigned himself to the deafening silence of withheld answers, unable to do anything but wait, by the Duchess' mystifying request. He closed his eyes, and within minutes he had retreated into the listless world of a light, uneasy sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter the 10th - In which there transpires an unforgivably large plot device, we come as close to smut as I'll probably ever get - which isn't very - and we learn how Stayne takes his tea.

I feel singularly terrible for not updating in forever, especially considering all the kind reviews I've received. I still can't believe it's already April (holy motarboard batman, I _graduate_ next month! wtf high school, where'd you go?) But things have been crazy around here, for one reason or another, or another, or another...

/excuses

Anyway, I only hope this was worth the wait in some way. I'm particularly proud of the character development in this chapter, if I do say so myself. Also, about the smut thing - I ain't kidding. I'm a bit squeamish, I won't lie, and I'm probably never going to trespass the original T rating. xD

Again, all R&R and alerts and favorites make me feel gooier than the melted rubber on your favorite Wonderwoman action figure after leaving her and her justice promoting accessories outside in the sun too long.

True story.

Enjoy~

* * *

The faint click of an unseen lock being undone caused Stayne to jerk from listlessness as one of the massive, silver plated double doors of the room creaked trepidly inward by a fraction. Stayne snapped his head around so fast that his neck gave off a painful jolt of protest.

Anathacia appeared through the slot of the open door, her figure framed starkly by the pasty yellow lighting that brimmed from the hallway beyond. In one hand she bore a candle that flickered dismally against the darkness, and in the other she balanced a silver tray, which sported a teapot and two uniform cups.

"You're awake then, Captain Stayne?"

Her tone was light and conversational, and in his current mood, Stayne couldn't stand it. He gave a noncommittal grunt, not wanting to betray his candid confusion.

"I was beginning to wonder when you would be." Thacia said as she set the tea tray on the bed stand and began to measure out two generous portions into the adjacent cups.

"You had the attending physicians quite perplexed, as well."

No longer able to contain himself, Stayne straightened up in bed and demanded of the Duchess:

"What in the blazes did you do to me, Thacia? How did I get here? And _why_ can't I recall anything that has transpired within the last _three hours_?"

Thacia did not respond right away, but instead produced two sugar lumps from an invisible pocket on her person and slipped them both into one of the teacups with a splash.

"According to the chief medical officer," She began slowly.

"You suffered an episode of combined exhaustion and dehydration."

She began to stir in the dissipating sugar with the tip of her little finger, teasing the surface of the drink until it started to swirl on its own accord.

"Though I'm rather in the opinion that someone – probably a person very, ah, _close_ to you – pinched the bundle of nerves located at the base of your neck for a bit too long, causing you to lose consciousness in a most drastic and peculiar manner. Though of course the physician would not have picked up on that – Father acquired that particular technique from the locals during his crusade across the Crimson Sea, when he and Mother hunted the Snark. He has yet to demonstrate it to anyone outside of our royal family."

Stayne glared at her.

"A warning, the next time you decide to manipulate my physical condition, would not go amiss."

Thacia raised an eyebrow at him.

"Would you have even agreed to it if I had told you?" She countered, offering Stayne his cup of tea as she finished her thought.

"You are many things, Ilosovic Stayne - but spontaneous is not one of them."

Stayne accepted delicately, though did not drink as he continued to regard the Duchess with obvious discontent.

"You'll want to drink that before it grows cold," Anathacia advised, retrieving a footstool from somewhere under the bed and seating herself adjacent to the bedside.

"Two sugars and no cream, I presume?"

Stayne decided that he too weary and perhaps too dazed to entertain any real animosity against the Duchess. However, this did not stop him from replying in a tone that was slightly cooler than was completely necessary,

"My Lady's memory is impeccable."

Thacia must have sensed his lingering displeasure; she sighed, sipping carefully from her own cup.

"Oh, come now Ilosovic. You know somewhere beneath your indignation that neither one of us could have come up with any better plan under the circumstances."

Stayne drummed his fingers on the heated, ceramic surface of his cup and looked pointedly away and out the open balcony across the room, refusing to reply.

Anathacia set her tea aside and suddenly changed tactics. She heaved another sigh, but this time there was an exaggerated, feminine moan to it – the sort that did not in the least indicate distress. She leaned forward into the edge of the feathered mattress, supporting her chin with her fingertips in a very precise and delicate manner, mere inches away from Stayne. For his part, Ilosovic Stayne had never been so infinitely aware of the absence of his shirt. It took all that remained of his quickly wilting stubbornness to keep his eyes trained away from the Duchess. His sudden lack of obstinacy showed in his defeated attempt to adjust the silken sheets over his half-exposed chest.

"I know what you're doing." He said, fighting the impulse to glance toward her.

"It won't work."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." Thacia simpered; the 'come-hither' pout in her tone was so pronounced, Stayne was aware of it without even looking at her.

"Though, it might interest you to know, Ilosovic Stayne," Thacia went on, extending a hand and plucking curiously at the edge of the sheet he had drawn over himself, like a child cautiously trying to clear the wrapping paper off of a gift without being discovered.

"The attending physician hadn't originally planned to relieve you of anything more than that onerous set of armor you were wearing – which, by the way, is in desperate need of upgraded shoulder panels, though that is neither here nor there – it was, in fact, under my own insinuation that the physician thought it best to_ remove_ the remaining several layers…"

That did the trick. Without any warning, Stayne thrust aside is tea and seized the Duchess with both arms. She cried out with a start as he hoisted her onto the bed; Stayne fought to suppress his laughter at the look of total surprise on her face as he rolled back and landed her atop of him.

"Ilosovic!" She reprimanded, breathless. She struggled into a quasi-upright position, hands on either side of the man beneath her. In turn, the man in question laughed then; the sort of ringing, unforgettable laugh that abides in the memory as a testament to treasured times, brought back to recollection when life is not so untroubled. The sound of it was true and light-hearted – even Stayne himself couldn't even remember a past instance when he had felt as carefree – as reckless – as_ joyful _as he did in that moment when he draped the Duchess across his chest and held her there by her waist, feeding off of the sheer disbelief that commanded her expression.

"What – too spontaneous for you, Anathacia DeVyne?" He challenged, still smiling. The Duchess paused, striving to decide whether she was flattered or furious with him. Her ambiguity made her look sheepish, even weak, and the moment passed. Stayne faltered, embarrassed for both their sakes. His shame soon spawned a sudden, poignant anger, and he sat up sharply from the sheets and brushed the Duchess aside gruffly.

"You're afraid." He realized, sneering. Thacia, unprepared for Stayne's dramatic flares in disposition, remained at an overwhelming loss as she groped haplessly for some response to quell his frustration.

"Well, yes – but no! You merely caught me off guard – if father were to find out –"

"Save it." He snapped.

"Even here, out of the omniscient gaze of the Watch, you let the visage of your father restrict who you are."

He lifted her chin with one hand, not altogether gently, and forced her to meet his eyes.

"You are a _Duchess_, Anathacia DeVyne – you are as strong as you are both beautiful and proud. Can you not see that this…this_ terror_ of your father dilutes that? Even the thought of him seems to subdue all that I…that…I fell in love with."

Again, the words seemed to clog in his throat, unfamiliar as Stayne was with recognizing the sheer truth of the matter. When she did not respond, he continued.

"Lord Farian is a _man_, Thacia - a powerful one that should be respected, of course - but he is a mortal man nonetheless; he is not all seeing nor all powerful; he is human, and he makes mistakes like you and I – yet you treat him like a devil, a very devil that haunts at your heals with a rat o' nine tails, waiting to scourge you back to submission should you choose to follow your heart."

Anathacia was deathly sober as she replied.

"But he's my father, Ilosivic. I can't disappoint him."

"'Can't'?" Stayne pressed.

"Or won't?"

There was a silence as his words delved into her perception and slowly took root. The only answer Anathacia offered was something between a shrug and a cautious shake of her head.

"Listen to me," He commanded at length, brushing his thumb along her cheek as he still held her chin.

"I want you to make a choice. Since it seems you cannot please the both of us at once, you must either choose one or the other."

"That isn't fair, Ilosovic," Thacia bristled,

"How dare you think –"

"I wasn't finished." He cut in. Thacia glared at him, her nostrils flared with suppressed anger, but she held her tongue and let Stayne carry on.

"I was going to say that at this point I really care which one you pick, so long as you commit to your choice and stop toying with me. But above all, Anathacia" Here he softened and grew earnest.

"In whatever you choose, I want you to please _yourself_. Forget about your father – forget about your kingdom even, your loyalty has been proven time and time again. Your duty has blinded you, Duchess – forced you down a path that demands too much. Just once, I'd like to see Anathacia DeVyne choose her own path, instead of resigning herself to the bleak restrictions of Court life that can only end in misery and regret."

The silence that occurred after this statement seemed to deepen and age like a mulled wine, gaining potency as what felt like a millennium seeped by. Stayne could have sworn afterwards that he caught the shine of unshed tears in Thacia's steadfast blue eyes.

Finally, in a cracked whisper harrowed with emotion, the Duchess gave her answer.

"I choose you."

"Then come," Stayne said warmly, entwining his fingers into hers and brushing her cheek with a light kiss.

"I believe you were in the middle of something decidedly_…exciting,_ before you started second guessing yourself."

His hands started climbing up the back of her corset, picking at the taught lace eagerly. Thacia drew closer and hesitated for only a moment, before seizing Stayne in a full, unbridled kiss on the lips. She moaned – or maybe he did, Stayne couldn't tell for sure – as they fell back together into the downy mass of cool satin sheets and thick animal furs. He tugged fervently at the last few strains of lace that persisted in securing the Duchess' corset, suddenly aware that Thacia was atop of him, and just as adamant that she escape the confines of her dress as he was.

He didn't immediately realize that Thacia had abruptly stopped all movement, only halfway out of the strewn, stubborn clutches of the corset.

"What are you doing?" Stayne asked, not altogether patiently. Thacia raised a finger to her lips and shushed him soundly.

"Shh! Do you hear that?"

Stayne sighed and fell still.

"I'm sure I can't hear anything –" He started to say, not really listening.

"Then you're not really listening!" Thacia said, "Hush!"

A single second of silent stillness ticked by; and then Stayne heard the voices.

"…Do what you can to re-secure the training grounds and the adjacent stables," A deep, gruff voice was saying as it approached.

"And for Time's good sake, find Anathacia! She's supposed to be on the Fire Watch!"

Stayne looked suddenly to Anathacia. Anathacia snapped to Stayne. The horror of one was mirrored perfectly in the other's wordless, wide-eyed expression.

"_Father!_"

* * *

Hello, hi, me again! Terribly exciting, no? I just thought I'd pop in and mention that the whole 'I knocked you out with the vulcan death grip' plot device is a phenomenon that I didn't entirely* make up. There is, it seems, a bundle of nerves somewhere in the neck that if you pinch for long enough, causes you to collapse without being able to control movement for a few seconds. Or so says my mother the nurse.

*Yes, I know I embellished a bit - yes, I know that as a plot device it seems terribly anticlimactic - yes, I know Spock could have done it better, but to be terribly honest, I wrote myself into a bit of a corner, and had to fudge my way through it. The quality of the end result, I'll leave you to decide.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter the Eleventh - in which emotions run high, there is very nearly a discovery most scandalous, and Javaire plays the part of the perfect prat, as per usual.

So the good news is, two updates in (roughly) the same week - huzzah!

Bad news is, after this installment, the story will be on hold indefinitely. Ho hum.

Sorry to everyone who was hoping for regular updates, but with tech week coming up for Twelfth Night, followed immediately by finals and graduation and not to mention several personal projects I'm multitasking on, I'm afraid Stayne and Thacia will just have to wait their turn. I'll do my best to be back by mid May, but I will guarantee right now that this is the last update for April.

*sigh*

So on that cheery note, thank you in advance for every alert/fav/review you chuck my way! and just to reiterate, I take critique of the helpful kind just as well as I take any normal review, which is disturbingly happily.

Enjoy~!

* * *

"_Father!_" Thacia exclaimed, layering Stayne's sudden hiss of "Lord Farian!"

They paused.

"Hide—_HIDE_!"

Thacia gave a wild, bewildered jump off of the bed. She was using both hands to pin the straggling remnants of her corset to her otherwise exposed chest, and she was shaking with nerves.

"Where?"

"Anywhere! Behind the curtain–"

"The curtain is transparent!"

"Then the closet!"

"_There is no closet!"_

The doorknob rolled and clicked as someone began to enter. Thacia dove to the floor and scrambled under the bed; Stayne grappled with the discarded bed sheets and rearranged himself, his heart pounding in a frenzied protest that seemed to fill the sudden silence of the room.

The doors were thrust aside as Lord Farian stood impassively on the threshold. Stayne, assuming a disposition of calm he did not feel, sat a little straighter and blinked against the orange light that spilled into the room. He heard Thacia beneath him fidget with her petticoat as it swished softly – the little insignificant noise seemed magnified by the perilous atmosphere, but the most that Stayne could do was to pretend he hadn't heard it.

The Lord of Deymuun entered at his leisure, addressing Stayne heartily as he strode forward.

"Captain Stayne! Good to see you awake at last."

There was a second figure framed in the doorway, not yet entering; Stayne glanced around Lord Farian's encompassing girth to see, with no small chagrin, that it was Javaire. The young man lingered by the entrance, arms folded, and leaning against the wall. The backlighting of the hallway behind him shadowed his face too much to make out his expression – though Stayne doubted it would have been any warmer than the one from his previous greeting in the High Spire.

"Lord Farian," Stayne said, inclining his head in reverence. "I must apologize for – "

"Nonesense." Lord Farian waved his hand gruffly and silenced Stayne. "What's done is done – and what's been done was hardly in your control anyway."

He assumed a seat in the stool that Thacia had occupied only minutes before.

"Even the attending medic couldn't quite figure it out. A seizure of some kind, he insists. Have you ever had black out spells or fainted before, Stayne?"

Stayne's fists clenched impulsively beneath the sheets. Lord Farian was treating him as a grandfather would treat a sickly child. His condescending concern made Stayne feel weak, and he would have given the world to stand up and shout into both of their faces that Thacia had beguiled him – that he was not weak or incapacitated.

Except that his entire world was currently crouched underneath the bed, holding her breath in fear and probably praying that Stayne would deliver her from the unfathomable wrath of her father before she suffocated.

"…No, my Lord." He said at length. "None that I can remember."

"Must be the mountain air playing tricks on you." Lord Farian boomed, unaware of Stayne's stifled indignation.

"Not to worry – the physician assures me that he found no abnormalities. You'll be fit to return to the company of your advance guard by tomorrow – and none too eager to do so, I'll wager."

"My lord makes a deft observation." Stayne returned.

"I wish not to infringe upon your hospitality for any longer than I absolutely must. Deymuun has already imparted more generosity on the Crims standard than we ever could have expected. And, as one royal faction to another, we thank you."

Lord Farian grunted.

"Crims," He muttered over his shoulder to Javaire, as if Stayne couldn't hear him.

"Always so formal. Right then Stayne," He turned back to the captain.

"I'll direct Thacia to send you up a servant to rouse you at dawn. Err, speaking of which,"

Stayne's heart leapt into his throat as he foresaw the inevitable change of topic.

"You haven't happened to see my daughter anywhere about, have you? She's due to man the Firewatch, fifth balcony brigade – but no one's seen hide nor hair of her since about 8 o'clock."

Stayne took a second to think about it and summoned his best look of bewilderment – though he doubted it was completely convincing.

"No my Lord," He said, and then, before he could stop himself, "I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure."

Javaire's snort-turned-cough from the doorway was too well timed for even Lord Farian to remain oblivious to. Stayne could have kicked him, or worse, had he been any closer.

"What's with you, boy?" Lord Farian's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he turned to ask. Javaire paused and looked to his father, trying his hardest not to enjoy the situation he had created. Even in the shadows, Stayne could tell he was failing brilliantly.

"Sorry father – dust in the throat, that sort of thing," Javaire said, feigning another small coughing spasm.

"Might I borrow some of that tea sitting there, Stayne?"

Wordlessly, Stayne reached and offered him the cup. Javaire was deliberately avoiding eye contact as he stepped forward and accepted.

And then the worst thing that could have possibly happened, happened.

As Javaire took a swig and set the tea back down it its original place, Lord Farian's eye caught the extra teacup sitting stone cold at Stayne's bedside. He stared at it along time, as if trying to fathom its existence. Stayne's heart seemed to stop dead for an agonizing eternity.

Finally, Lord Farian spoke.

"…You're positive that you haven't seen The Duchess, Captain Stayne?" He said, his tone flat and unreadable.

Stayne swallowed before he answered.

"Quite my lord." He lied.

"Then why, I wonder," Farian countered, a bit loudly, as if announcing to an invisible third party in the room,

"Is Anathacia's favorite set of china sitting in your guestroom _– with place settings for two?_"

"I couldn't say milord," Stayne rushed to say, desperate.

"It was present when I awoke not minutes before your arrival."

"Oh come on Father," Javaire pitched in from his spot by the doorway.

"Thacia probably dropped it off before she went to take her Fire Watch shift, while the good Captain was resting. She probably had a spot herself to keep the long night ahead at bay, and just didn't have the time to clear it away before she left."

Lord Farian considered solemnly for several long seconds. The silence that descended was deafening.

"Perhaps." He said at last. He was still unconvinced. "We'd best be leaving Javaire. The council requires our immediate attention to oversee some last minute details on Mirana's troops."

He rose and swept from the bedside. Stayne relaxed a by fraction, though his breath remained baited. Lord Farian shot him a nod that was a bit too curt to be cordial as he left, and Stayne returned the gesture with as much dignity as he could assemble. He was careful to say nothing, however. It was still too soon to test Lord Farian's temper with words.

Javaire and Stayne exchanged mutual glances as the Duke followed after his father. They both knew full well what kind of catastrophe had been averted by a hairsbreadth.

Javaire checked down the hallway to ensure his father was out of earshot.

"Tell my dear sister, undoubtedly doubled beneath the bed," He hissed, his teeth bared in suppressed vehemence, "That she may not be so lucky a third time."

And with that, he closed the door and was gone.

Stayne remained tense for another full minute, wanting to make certain that the shadows lingering just beyond the closed door did not have sentient masters. He knew Lord Farian hadn't bought his façade – and in consequence, Stayne foresaw his stay at Deymuun tripling its worth in wariness.

Once he had decided that the shadows from the hallway were just that, mere shadows, he exhaled audibly and fell back in bed.

"Come out quickly Anathacia," He said finally into the stillness, "Before someone comes back."

There was a great shuffling and ruffling and other such sounds of movement and the Duchess scraped herself from the confined darkness beneath him. Once she was free, she rose into a kneeling position beside the bed, breathing heavily and still shaking. Stayne noticed that her corset had been discarded somewhere along the abandon. He also noticed her gauzy blue undershirt was a great deal more transparent than he thought it would be. Such an unforeseen distraction prevented him from realizing that Thacia was shaking from more than just nerves at first, until he heard the swallowed sob reverberate in her voice as she spoke.

"I'm sorry Stayne," She said – the initial strength of her tone fragmented by a slight wavering as she fought an onslaught of tears.

"It's all my fault. I've been so _stupid – how _could I have been so stupid? I could have gotten us both tried for treason against my father – against Deymuun – the Royal family – I should never have come in the first place –"

"Enough, Thacia."

Stayne slipped out of bed and knelt beside her, cupping her cheek in one hand.

"This was as much my doing as it was yours. Stop trying to take credit for everything."

He turned and fished out the corset lying forgotten under the bed, offering it to her.

"Come, sit."

He took her by the hand and raised her onto the bed. Wordlessly, Thacia complied as Stayne set about rethreading the coarse cord of thread through each eyelet of the corset. He was deliberately gentle, checking himself each time he pulled the string taught so as not to cause Anathacia any more unnecessary discomfort. A few minutes later, he had fashioned both ends of the chord into a knot, and he sat back a bit to survey his work.

"Is that good?" He asked.

"It's still slipping," Thacia admitted, "A bit tighter."

And so Stayne unfastened his knot and began again. This simple task had an infinitely gratifying effect on both of them, soothing all their frayed nerves that had surfaced during the disastrous discourse of the evening.

Once Thacia was satisfied, she stood up from the bed and adjusted the bosom of her corset, her back still to him. Stayne followed suit and rose after her.

"You'd best be getting on," He said,

"They'll still be wondering what's become of you."

She nodded and made for the door.

"Anathacia," He called softly. She stopped and turned slowly about, her eyes still downcast.

"…You still have my heart."

Stayne saw in her posture that she suppressed a sigh.

"Please Stayne," She said, "Not just yet. I…I need to think…To clear my head."

For one wild moment, he saw, in his mind's eye, himself braving forward and taking her in one last, passionate kiss to leave her with something more definite to think about – but before he could make up his mind to do so, she had unlatched the door and was slipping away into the dim corridor beyond.

"…Good night Captain Stayne."

And then she was gone. Stayne looked after her for a moment, then went back and collapsed silently on the bed, staring at the white washed ceiling without really seeing it.

"…_Damn_." He said at last.


End file.
